Me and some other students outside of class today began talking about Mythbusters. Or rather, the other students did, and a myth in particular about an army that had drowned after their bridge collapsed. This begat a discussion about bridges and bridge building techniques and how solid they are now versus then. My point was that if bridge building was so great before the 20th Century, how come there wasn’t a bridge across the Chesapeake Bay? Right? Right?

Anyway, I theorized that someone should build a bridge from the United States to Europe, because, fuck man, that’s an awful long way to swim. Now, type in “Baltimore” and “Paris” and click “Get Directions.” Look at #21.

“No, no, no, Google, I said driving directions!”

(It pretty much works with any U.S. or European city I’ve tried).

I can imagine fewer ways I’d be happier to die than being killed by Lego.

A 21-year-old employee at the Legoland amusement park was killed in a roller coaster accident, police and park officials said Monday.

The woman, who was not identified, died immediately Sunday after being hit by a coaster car, police said. She had apparently jumped over a security fence to pick up a wallet that a passenger had lost near the track when the accident happened.

“We’re shocked,” Legoland manager Henrik Hoehrman said. Nothing like this has happened before.”

The park, located next to the headquarters of toy maker Lego in Billund, 240 kilometers (150 miles) west of Copenhagen, opened as usual Monday but the roller coaster was closed as police investigated the incident.

Humor aside, this is an awful situation. What a tragic and senseless death, and all for a completely replaceable material item.

HT: Zenchick.

(Well, okay, being fucked to death has a certain appeal to it, too.)

So it’s one of these driveways - private drive type, lots of houses off it - I hate. Long, narrow, twisting, unpaved, houses unmarked except for the cluster of mailboxes at the entrance. I was looking for 12415, and there were five mailboxes. Which was which? I had no idea, and picked one almost entirely at random. That’s a lie - it was dusk, and the inner door was open - the glass screen door (wtf do you call those?) led me to believe this house was my destination. Anyway, it wasn’t, but the woman was very kind to provide some “house finding” directions to me - “Back out of this driveway, straight down all the way.”

Of course, any hopes I had of getting a tip were dashed when I’d apologized for bothering her. “I’m looking for 12415,” I’d said to her. “Oh, the jerks,” she responded.

I won’t mention the loud nasty dog, the nearly impassable drive, the uncut grass I had to wade through, the long wait at their door; the buck seventy-five I got spoke for itself. Greg told me later, when I was back at the shop, “Coulda been worse - they coulda stiffed you.” Yeah, they could’ve stiffed me, but it wouldn’t have made the experience much more unpleasant than it had been.