Have We Learned Nothing?

love_textingWhile driving home from work the other day, I witnessed a curious sight that made me want to punch the face of the person committing the crime.

I was sitting at a red light when I saw a teen driver on the opposite side of the intersection waiting for traffic to clear so he could make a left turn.

As he waited to turn, I couldn’t help but notice the cigarette that was dangling from left hand outside the window. Strike One.

Then as he continued to creep forward, I saw that he was looking down, then up, then down, then up. Shortly after that he raised his hand and, as you might have guessed by now, he was using it to send text messages. Strike Two.

And as if that wasn’t enough, in the middle of it all he was distracted by a young lady riding her bike on the sidewalk.

Strike Three—get your ass out of the car and sit down for your tongue-lashing.

Look here, you fucking twat waffle. Have we learned nothing about the dangers of texting while driving? I know that at 18 you think you’re fucking invincible and that you’re never going to die, but guess what? Shit happens—really bad shit happens and one day, whether through your own fault, at the hands of another or just nature taking its course, you will die.

I sincerely hope that one day, just for the sake of karma, you’re rear-ended by one of your high school cronies that was texting one of their friends. If that’s what it takes for all of you to learn your lesson, then so be it. Hell, this goes for adults, too.

In the event that the aforementioned scenario never takes place, what schools need today is a new version of Scared Straight! or an updated, even more graphic [and high definition] version of Red Asphalt (WARNING: cheesy but you’ll see some brain soup) to teach these little shitheads the importance of paying fucking attention while driving. This goes for you too, Maria Shriver, because cutesy little dioramas featuring the school’s best thespians fall short telling the real stories.

I may be coming off like an ass here but I take such a stand because I’ve got a family to look after and with a road filled with assholes such as yourself not paying attention to how they are driving, within seconds my house could be home to a widow and orphan—and not the typesetting kind.

sprousebrotherssuitelifeAhem. That’s all I got. Oh, except for a quick note to that other teenager who, following the rules of the road, rode his bike past me before I made a right turn onto my street.

I’ve got nothing against your cycling skills, kid, but you sure as shit could use a haircut because you looked like one of these idiots.

 

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Now playing: John Lennon – Instant Karma
via FoxyTunes

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Won’t Somebody Please Think of the Smokers?!

(Note: It should be stated loud and clear that my bike does not have a name. But in order to personify it in this post, I will refer to it as Bikey.)

As some of you may know, my new job now affords me the privilege of riding my bike to work. And as you can probably imagine, now that I’m no longer the gastropod I once was, I take full advantage of the opportunity even if it means carrying a (heavy) backpack full of clothes and my lunch.

Curiously, there are no bike racks at the office so since starting that job I chain Bikey to the outer perimeter of our patio–it doubles as a hangout for the office’s smokers–in plain view so that I can keep an eye on it throughout the day. After all, this is not exactly some cheap Huffy or Murray bike here. But upon glancing out the window today I noticed that there was a note affixed to Bikey.

“Maybe someone hit it,” a co-worker joked.

I went downstairs to fetch the note and opened it up. It was from somebody in the office with a request to call them at their extension, so I did.

Within a few minutes I was met by the note-leaver, a fellow with a feminine name who very much resembled Barney Rubble in terms of girth and hair style. He went on to tell me that my bike is an eyesore being parked where it is, and that the smokers of the office shouldn’t have to look at it whilst they puff themselves into oblivion.

Barney also went on to tell me that they used to have a bike rack outside the office but once people stopped riding to work, it was removed and he sees no sense in installing a new one for one person (me). Evidently, in exchange for riding their bikes to work, these people all took up smoking and engorging themselves at the local Chinese buffet. All things considered, he requested that I begin parking it in the mailroom so as not to disturb those outside getting their nic-fix.

While I’m cool with keeping Bikey inside, I’m not entirely happy with the way things were presented to me.

My bike. An eyesore. Huh. Let’s examine the evidence.

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