258 - The Yellow Zone is for Fucking


When Paige, the free-spirited girl at the bar, said she wanted to help you try something radical and different, you assumed she meant taking a spontaneous trip to Cote D’Ivoire or dying your hair green. What you didn’t expect was to be screwing on the median of a busy highway during rush hour. Here you are, though, pounding away as loose gravel and the sharp remnants of broken bottles dig into your knees.

Several angry honks (Can a honk be angry?) and one well-received high five later, the police arrive.

While you’re being booked, the officer asks you if you have any aliases. You replied politely in the negative.

Paige looks at you with a mix of annoyance and pity. “You still haven’t learned, have you? Watch this?”

She waits patiently for the officer to ask her the same question. “Yes, sir,” she replies. “They call me Neutral Ground and Pound.”

Again, she turns her attention to you, this time wearing a smug smile. “That, my friend, is how you get in the newspaper.”