In my ongoing sociological investigations of this island's native inhabitants, I attended what is known in the local dialect as a banger race. See figure 1 for an example.
Figure 1: A video demonstrating the subgenre of banger races called caravan racing.
It was a pleasurable experience and my inner 10 year smiled with glee as transmission fluid and tire rubber flew into my face. Above the simple pleasure of crashing metal and speeding vehicles, I loved watching the woman counting the laps, waving the flags and directing the race. As the leading cars sped past her she would point and signal their position: first, second, third etc. She did it with flicks and twists of the wrist as eloquent as a belly dancer's. Every movement she made as she juggled the thousand tasks of her position was done with a grace that seemed out of place amongst the raw growling power of the cars zipping past.
Shhh! Pay attention. Brother Holden is going to preach some truth.
--copied from "The Catcher in the Rye" by J. D. Salinger--
Somebody'd written "Fuck you" on the wall. It drove me damn near crazy. I thought how Phoebe and all the other little kids would see it, and how they'd wonder what the hell it meant, and then finally some dirty kid would tell them--all cockeyed, naturally--what it meant, and how they'd all think about it and maybe even worry about it for a couple of days. I kept wanting to kill whoever'd written it.
I went down by a different staircase, and I saw another "Fuck you" on the wall. I tried to rub it off with my hand again, but this one was scratched on, with a knife or something. It wouldn't come off. It's hopeless, anyway. If you had a million years to do it in, you couldn't rub out even half the "Fuck you" signs in the world. It's impossible.
Then, all of a sudden, you'd never guess what I saw on the wall. Another "Fuck you." It was written with a red crayon or something, right under the glass part of the wall, under the stones. That's the whole trouble. You can't ever find a place that's nice and peaceful, because there isn't any. You may think there is, but once you get there, when you're not looking, somebody'll sneak up and write "Fuck you" right under your nose. Try it sometime. I think, even, if I ever die, and they stick me in a cemetery, and I have a tombstone and all, it'll say "Holden Caulfield" on it, and then what year I was born and what year I died, and then right under that it'll say "Fuck you." I'm positive, in fact.
At work, I was chatting with a Yorkshire man that pronounced project as in 'the software project' like the Wu-tang, PRO-ject. If he had said sword and pronounced the 'W', I would have been the happiest man in the IT department.