With the advent of another summer, I emerge from my
hibernation, renewed and ready to once again wield the latent power of my
keyboard against the indomitable stupidity of humanity. The news
headlines of the last few months have borne the fruit of my
premonitions. You may remember my warnings about the impending zombie
apocalypse? I told you, my faithful Coffee and Scotch readers, to cast
off your tight jeans and repent, lest you become victims of the
shambling undead. You heard my clarion call and were saved. Others were
not so fortunate. Following the first wave of attacks in Miami, the
media skillfully shifted our attention to “bath salts”. My theory is
that the errant zombie attack was a government training exercise gone
bad...Operation Bieber Drop.The real mystery is, why is the government
creating an elite force of synthetic drug induced zombies to kill Justin
Beiber? The obvious answer is...who cares so long as it’s the one
government program in a thousand that succeeds. It sounds a lot like something I wouldn't mind my tax dollars funding.
So here we are, the start of the summer of 2012 and everything
good that comes with it. This wouldn’t be Coffee and Scotch though, if I
was simply reminiscing about those week long, Country Time lemonade,
summer Sunday afternoons. This soapbox was created so I could bitch, and
bitch I shall. You there, on the motorcycle weaving through traffic
down the center of the Merritt Parkway, who the fuck do you think you
are? How about you, riding your rice rocket down the street at 11:00 at
night, loud enough to wake the dead, who the fuck do you think you are?
And you, posting the public service announcements on my Facebook wall
about being “aware” of motorcyclists on the roads, who the fuck do you
think you are? Don’t tell me how to drive my car, and how to “share” the
road, and how to be on the lookout for all the precious snowflakes out
there on their custom choppers. Fuck off! I’ll tell you what I tell all
the Lance Armstrong wanna-be bicyclists, if you want to share the road
with me than take some personal accountability for what you’re doing.
And what you’re doing is being an asshat. If you want to be out there
with the big boy cars; put your damn helmet on, pick a lane to drive in,
and follow the rules of the road. I’m not responsible for you dipshits.
You wanna make your fancy little toy nice and loud and drive it on
residential streets at all hours of the night, and then plead with me to
pay attention to you while I’m out driving my son around trying to get
him to fall asleep because he’s running a 102 degree fever? Fuck you.
I’m gonna make my car door nice and heavy and swing it open while you’re
creeping by me down the highway, straddling lanes to avoid the traffic
I’m stuck in. Traffic that was probably caused by a blood stained patch
of asphalt that used to be a motorcyclist like you. Dammit you assholes
drive me crazy every summer.
The truth is I don’t care what you’re driving, I care how you’re
driving it. There are just as many idiots out there, driving shitty cars
with aftermarket exhaust systems and stupid ass stereos that make my
teeth rattle. Mini vans driven by sexually frustrated soccer moms,
tailgating everyone and swerving across three lanes of traffic without a
thought about using a turn signal. If you want my respect on the road,
earn it. I realize that not everyone that owns and operates a motorcycle
is an inconsiderate jackass, but it sure does seem like a lot of them are. When I see you out there, doing the right
thing, I give you extra room and extra respect. In my world, you reap
what you sow. We’re all on the same side right? We’re all driving over
to Burger King to try a delicious bacon sundae and bask in the knowledge
that bacon, chocolate and ice cream taste fucking amazing together.
Which is something I seem to recall writing about last summer. Hey,
maybe when the Biebs is gone, I’ll buy everyone on a Harley a bacon
sundae to celebrate. Mea culpa.
With the advent of another summer, I emerge from my
hibernation, renewed and ready to once again wield the latent power of my
keyboard against the indomitable stupidity of humanity. The news
headlines of the last few months have borne the fruit of my
premonitions. You may remember my warnings about the impending zombie
apocalypse? I told you, my faithful Coffee and Scotch readers, to cast
off your tight jeans and repent, lest you become victims of the
shambling undead. You heard my clarion call and were saved. Others were
not so fortunate. Following the first wave of attacks in Miami, the
media skillfully shifted our attention to “bath salts”. My theory is
that the errant zombie attack was a government training exercise gone
bad...Operation Bieber Drop.The real mystery is, why is the government
creating an elite force of synthetic drug induced zombies to kill Justin
Beiber? The obvious answer is...who cares so long as it’s the one
government program in a thousand that succeeds. It sounds a lot like something I wouldn't mind my tax dollars funding.
So here we are, the start of the summer of 2012 and everything
good that comes with it. This wouldn’t be Coffee and Scotch though, if I
was simply reminiscing about those week long, Country Time lemonade,
summer Sunday afternoons. This soapbox was created so I could bitch, and
bitch I shall. You there, on the motorcycle weaving through traffic
down the center of the Merritt Parkway, who the fuck do you think you
are? How about you, riding your rice rocket down the street at 11:00 at
night, loud enough to wake the dead, who the fuck do you think you are?
And you, posting the public service announcements on my Facebook wall
about being “aware” of motorcyclists on the roads, who the fuck do you
think you are? Don’t tell me how to drive my car, and how to “share” the
road, and how to be on the lookout for all the precious snowflakes out
there on their custom choppers. Fuck off! I’ll tell you what I tell all
the Lance Armstrong wanna-be bicyclists, if you want to share the road
with me than take some personal accountability for what you’re doing.
And what you’re doing is being an asshat. If you want to be out there
with the big boy cars; put your damn helmet on, pick a lane to drive in,
and follow the rules of the road. I’m not responsible for you dipshits.
You wanna make your fancy little toy nice and loud and drive it on
residential streets at all hours of the night, and then plead with me to
pay attention to you while I’m out driving my son around trying to get
him to fall asleep because he’s running a 102 degree fever? Fuck you.
I’m gonna make my car door nice and heavy and swing it open while you’re
creeping by me down the highway, straddling lanes to avoid the traffic
I’m stuck in. Traffic that was probably caused by a blood stained patch
of asphalt that used to be a motorcyclist like you. Dammit you assholes
drive me crazy every summer.
The truth is I don’t care what you’re driving, I care how you’re
driving it. There are just as many idiots out there, driving shitty cars
with aftermarket exhaust systems and stupid ass stereos that make my
teeth rattle. Mini vans driven by sexually frustrated soccer moms,
tailgating everyone and swerving across three lanes of traffic without a
thought about using a turn signal. If you want my respect on the road,
earn it. I realize that not everyone that owns and operates a motorcycle
is an inconsiderate jackass, but it sure does seem like a lot of them are. When I see you out there, doing the right
thing, I give you extra room and extra respect. In my world, you reap
what you sow. We’re all on the same side right? We’re all driving over
to Burger King to try a delicious bacon sundae and bask in the knowledge
that bacon, chocolate and ice cream taste fucking amazing together.
Which is something I seem to recall writing about last summer. Hey,
maybe when the Biebs is gone, I’ll buy everyone on a Harley a bacon
sundae to celebrate. Mea culpa.
