Small anecdote from the sick room:
Last night around 2:00 AM I was downstairs on the couch, wrapped in a quilt and sipping on some green tea while trying not to think about the fact that my head feels like it's 60 pounds and filled with expired whole milk. Since sleep was out of the question, I was finishing up the second of two books I read this weekend, Haruki Murakami's memoir What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. Late in the book he reprints an essay about the time he ran an ultrmarathon, 62 miles in a single day, which is where I came across the following line:
Beside the road cows are lazily chewing grass.
My sick-addled brain, however, read the sentence this way:
Besides, the road cows are lazily chewing grass.
And then I spent the next 20 minutes trying to figure out what the heck a "road cow" was.