We were driving down a long lonely one of those deserted stretches of U.S. highway somewhere in the Midwest, the great breadbasket of these here United States, when Stan suddenly remarked, “Get a look at that, Scotto, up ahead!” I did the squints and saw, to my surprise, a very large pool of viscous black goo up ahead where a good portion of the highway ought to have been. “What do you suppose that is?” he asked, and I said, “Viscous black goo, Stan, ain’t you ever seen viscous black goo before?” As I recall, there was something light and airy on the AM dial as we continued relentlessly forward. I forget what I was thinking about at the time, it was certainly Important in that special way we all have around here, and Stan said, “Do you suppose we’ll glide over the top of it?” and I said, “Here’s a ring around the collar says we find out.”

The front end of the car traversed some distance across the top of the pool before ultimately becoming mired, and the back end soon followed suit. We found ourselves sinking incredibly slowly, and what’s worse, reception was becoming poor on the ol’ AM. Stan said, “We can’t open these doors, can we,” and I replied, “That’s some goo, huh.” As the car sank, the view of the goo slopping up over the hood was duly impressive; the dim neon of a distant street lamp gave the whole pool of goo a rather luminescent quality. Man and machine, soon to be enveloped like dinosaurs in the tar pits, only god knows the dino- saurs never drove Toyotas. As the goo rose (or as the car sank, depending on how full or empty your glass is), we watched it squirm and slosh against the windows, teasing us a bit, and Stan said, “That’s some goo all right,” and I could only mutter, “Enthusiastic, ain’t it?” Soon I had to flick on the dome light, because the goo was up over the roof of the car. It was getting awfully hot and hard to breathe. Then Stan said, “What do you suppose’ll happen if I crack the window a little bit?”

What can I say? We were curious.