Once upon a time, as the young Greenbush Boy bicycled around his world, he received some advice from a crusty old soul who had seen much in his 80 years as the neighborhood rag picker.
Now the rag picker was well known in the neighborhood. Any old clothes no longer worthy of another wash or a patch up were boxed up and given to him. No one knew what he did with any of the threads or even where he lived, but his pick up truck was a shiny 54 Cadillac Fleetwood and his wife always rode shotgun on his pick ups.
"Boy," he said, "The most confounding word in the English language is the word commitment. Beware of its implications. Run from its obligations. Hide from its all-seeing eyes. Most importantly, never ever look back from the one who bellows forth its medicinal remedies because, should you ever glance back, you, like Lot's wife, will be doomed." His wife then punched him in the nose and told him he had chores back home to do.
The young Greenbush Boy became so unnerved by what the rag picker said that day, he remained on his bicycle for the next fifty years. Worse yet, he never asked any of the rag picker's three grand daughters out on a date even when he discovered years later that all three had ended up as strippers outside of Sun Prairie.
THE END
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