Boy, that's: hors de prix

 
 
   "Boy, that's:  hors de prix"
   
   When the rich, though non-regal, man offers up his own visitations, remind his bourgeois car's personality and false ego, though it's an android, and may pilot him off a cliff if he upsets the sentient chariot--just say, though not to the automobile--it reads your mind:  "Boy, that's hors de prix."
   Hell if I know.  My chien de meute always wants to evacuate poop on Holy Ground, and I feel like Highlander, minus the blade in a trench coat, for my blade is somewhere else; regardless, not in a state of limbes, though fascinated by the super-reality of real life over television.
   Never did make it to TACO BELL.  I don't think I ever will.  I just say it, so I can feel all-too-human.
   Nice weather.  I wonder about Michigan, and how Yankee college ball is exciting this year.