Saga of a dirty rag

I was north on I-95 and had just inserted Bach into the CD player -- no easy task since many a schnitzel und bier has fattened him up these days -- and was being treated to a glorious crescendo of organ music when it hit me:

A dirty rag gone a-journeying slapped the front of my car.

Perhaps it was a shred of magic carpet past its prime. Or maybe the wing of a horrible harpy.

It twisted and writhed but remained astride the front of my hood. I slowed down but it did not let go. I sped up to 85 mph, just for a moment, but though its gyrations became a frenzied blur, still it stubbornly held its position.

It is hard to enjoy good music and a blue-sky afternoon when a disgusting piece of garbage is dancing in front of you.

Now I began to consider ethics. Had I now become the legally responsible owner of this gross thing? If I were to stop and pry it off my grille, would I be liable for littering? Would I be obligated to deposit it in my own home trash can, teeming with whatever filth or toxic chemical saturated its fibers? If it broke loose on its own and someone saw it escape from the region of my car, would I see blue lights flashing behind me?

I pulled behind a huge truck loaded with I-beams. The mighty lorry must have sent a great gust my way, for finally, after twenty miles of unhappy companionship, the rag took leave of me and hit the pavement to await a new victim.

Perhaps it will continue traveling like this all the way to Chubb Crater, Quebec, annoying countless hapless drivers, for years on end. Sacre bleu!