Years ago, when I was a daredevil lad, I once used a pair of pogo stilts to jump off of the roof of my house and onto my backyard trampoline. It seemed like a great idea at the time. For a brief moment, I was Icarus, soaring godlike into the stratosphere. The next thing I know, the nose cone of an oncoming Logan-bound Airbus had exploded into my crotch. As I plummeted a truly terrifying distance back down to the earth, I realized that my options were not really very good: either I fell, allowing the impact with the black asphalt below to trigger the nasal expulsion of my own gelatinated pelvis, or I braced with the pogo sticks and risked jumping even higher. Possibly directly into the sun.
