So Piscataway's the new Crenshaw...

(It has, incidentally, occurred to me that my L.A. readers won't get the Piscataway reference; the Jersey readers won't get the Crenshaw reference; and the North Carolina readers won't get any references at all. So I apologize for that. And I double-apologize to Brian and Eric, who have no idea what any of these places are.)

That said...

My coworker Dave had had a bad week, and since I'm such a nice guy I decided I'd be the DD for once and drive to and fro the bars Friday night. After a long night of much drinking and an hour at Nuebies sobering up enough to drive home, we got into the car and I started driving him back to Piscataway.

Well the street he lives off of is essentially invisible and very easy to miss while driving 45 mph at 3:30 a.m., so I was driving a little under the speed limit and I noticed a car following close behind. I hate when people follow me close behind so I continued to watch from the rearview mirror.

Then I turned onto the street he lives off of -- which is not, incidentally, a major thoroughfare -- and the car turned also. I made the next turn onto his street, and the car turned again.

I locked the doors and pulled to the side of the road, hoping the car would continue past and everything was just a giant coincidence. The car pulled over, too.

I turned off my headlights. The car behind turned off its headlights.

At this point I was convinced we were about to be stabbed.

While Dave was calling the cops I was able to get a very fuzzy glance of the person driving the car and it appeared to be a blond chick. This made me feel less scared because apparently I'm a racist sexist asshole who assumes that blond girls can't be murderers.

So after a couple of minutes the dispatcher told us to drive forward and then make a left at the next block. I did. So did the car behind us.

At that point, two cop cars intercepted it at the corner and I pulled over half a block up.

The girl told the cops she was trying to follow someone else and must have gotten confused. It all seems very suspicious to me. The cop seemed to think that maybe she was a confused and/or bad private investigator.

So now I'm waiting for Dave's psychotic girlfriend to stab me in the head because she gets insanely jealous of any female in the same room as Dave and often refers to me as "the little bitch," even though I was disgustingly nice to her the one time we met. I don't trust that one...

Wow. That wasn't a good story at all.

Neither is this:
A.M. had a *giant* dingleberry this morning and was so terrified of it that she sprinted all over the apartment in a panicked -- and futile -- attempt to run away from her poo.