Yogurt?

So as many of you know (this is Andrew by the way) I ride my bike to and from school. It is a nice and refreshing ride, four miles each way, just enough to work up an embarrassing sweat on the way to class and just enough to ruin my appetite on the way home.
This evening as I was trundling home after three hours of Spanish instruction with my delightful classmates (four of us total, I guess "Intensive Spanish Review" is not a heavy seller for summer semesters) I was enjoying the irony of riding through a sea of people with whom I could practice my Spanish which I go out of my way NOT to speak to when low and behold...a foreign object came into my field of vision. Now one may wonder "what kind of object could be more foreign on the side of the road in Langley Park than a white guy?" The white guy in that statement was me, and yes, usually I am the most foreign object on the road.
This object however was unique, different, infinitely out of place, although I did not, upon first seeing it, recognize its uniqueness. It was a cup of yogurt (pause for dramatic gasp).
As I have already stated, I did not know what set this empty yogurt cup apart from the multitudinous trash items that lay on the ground around it. I say empty yogurt cup because of course it had to be empty. Yogurt being the universally loved item that it is could never be discarded full. On top of that, it takes about four and a half seconds to consume a cup of yogurt. Upon such suppositions rested my hypothesis that the cup was indeed empty, the only question now was whether or not to run it over.
I can see that all of you have gotten the general gist of where this story is heading, but bare in mind for the sake of humor that I actually thought out in words "This yogurt cant be full! I mean, who leaves a full yogurt on the side of the road? It truly is amazing the amount of coherent thought one can have in ten seconds while cruising at about sixteen miles an hour on a dark street at night.
My decision had basically been made for me, something innate inside of me, deep in the darkest recess of my soul where boyhood still thrived (this whole thing about the "deep recesses" is completely untrue. My wife would tell you that my boyhood is at eternal "recess" just below a thin covering of hair and next to my inappropriateness [see earlier racially insinuating comment for proof of inappropriateness]) lived something to whom this yogurt cups non-smashedness was offensive. In moments I took careful aim, swerved ever so slightly to the left and...
SPLACK! (notice here my clever modification of the common onomatopoeia "splat" to "splack" denoting that this was no ordinary or harmless "splat", but rather an uncommonly offensive "splat" with a bit of "stick" and "smack" thrown in for good measure.)
The foil cap was still on this deceptively empty looking yogurt cup and this foil cap was the thing that changed what would have been a slightly gross "slooping" out of yogurt onto the side of the road into what very likely resembled a yogurt landmine (that boyish side of me [read 90%] imagines that yogurt land minds would, not only be cool, but look like this).
With a slight "Pop" the yogurt cup slung its entrails in violent strings like a pink dairy firework. It clung to my bike and body like strawberry napalm and accompanied me the whole way home in the violent squealing my front brakes made after their less effective lactose lubing.
Upon arriving home I discovered that most of the yogurt landed either on my legs or arms, very inoffensive places for such a thing to land and fortuitous for my designer clothes (pause here to stifle the laughter and/or incredulity of anyone who has ever peeked into my closet). The only lasting effect seems to have been the smell which still clings to me like the plague, or a whiny adolescent sales person who is sure I am interested in beach-front property in the Sudan but cant seem to understand why I look like I am about to punch him in his pimply, obsequious face.
Moral of this overly drawn-out and dramatized minor mishap, when hearkening to your inner child, make sure he knows what he is doing because there might just be strawberry goo in that thing you are about to run over or pummel. Or better yet, listen to him anyway, even to his most poorly (or not at all) thought through ideas, because after all, a little yogurt stink never hurt anyone, right?