No, thank you. I don’t smoke!

Cigarette butts out of car windows have homing devices built into their filters. They lock onto their target, enter the slipstream and take aim at the nearest motorcyclist. If I had a penny for every time… oh well, I could buy a pack of premimum pre-rolled and filtered cancer sticks of my choice.

I am tired of it! If you assholes would just take a moment to think how it would make you feel if some joker walking ahead of you flicked their half-smoked Marlboro over the shoulder at you and it hit you square in the chest. You both would end up sitting in the back of a squad car not ten minutes later, like 7th-grade school boys in the principal’s office. There would be an altercation, and tell me it isn’t so. I’ll eat a pack of Camels lit if you would just brush the ashes off your clean, neatly pressed dress shirt and go about your business without so much of a thought of letting the smoking offender know how displeased your are with their lack of consideration and total disregard for their surroundings.

Chances are the motorcyclist two car lengths behind you feels the same way. The jacket I am wearing cost more than your damn business casuals including your loafers and your cheap knock-off watch. I’m going to go out on a limb here and venture a guess and say that in some cases my ride and gear are worth twice the Kelly Blue Book value of your smelly-ass rolling dirty ashtray of an automobile. We are not just some hooligans who had it coming anyway.

If you don’t want the butts in your car, wait until you get to your destination to fire up the next coffin nail, you stupid moronic waste of human trash. Not to mention that if you flicked your butt at a cop you would get fined for littering! Hefty!

Have you ever considered what could happen if that burning projectile you so carelessly jettisoned from your fresh-smelling (and I mean that with every ounce of sarcasm that I have left) environment found its way into a motorcyclist’s helmet or down their jacket collar? And don’t you dare laugh at the thought. You wouldn’t after you spent some time educating your inconsiderate self in the ways of aerodynamics. Although you probably are too narrowly focused (I just spent the last of my sarcasm/cynicism allowance) to grasp the concept.

The next time you toss the rest of your drink, your lit cigarette, your girlfriend’s IUD out of your car window and then act surprised when some irate bitch on a supersport is pacing you close enough to clip your mirror while shaking a mad fist at you and staring you down with red glowing eyes, hoping you’d pull over so she can lay you out flat on the rumble strip, you might be able to venture a guess as to what the possible cause of her anger is.

We are living, breathing human beings who want the same thing you do: get to our destination in one piece, within a reasonable timeframe and with the least amount of stress and aggravation possible; maybe even arrive in a decent enough mood. The only real difference? We choose to use half the number of wheels to get around. Now quit treating us like we are just another vehicle and part of some machine. That “thing” plopped on top of that motorcycle — that is now close enough for you to reach out and touch — is 57% water, just like you and is very vulnerable unlike you in your cage constructed of high-tech plastics and metal alloys, with airbags all around, rolling down the avenue on four pieces of round rubber which are probably too low on air pressure.

Quit behaving like the world is yours and nobody but your deluded self matters. Next time don’t be surprised when I come up alongside you with my emergency window breaker and a can of mace at the ready. What do you think us two-wheeled menaces to society have stashed in those tank bags anyway? That’s where we keep a bottle of water, our stockpile of marshmallows, a handful of ball bearings, a couple of Glocks, extra high-capacity ammo clips, pink lip gloss and some hard candy. Now you know.

The “share the road” philosophy embodies more than just a sentiment to move over two inches for a bicyclist or a pedestrian. It also does NOT entitle you to laying on your horn every time you see a woman walking or cycling!

Oh, will you look at that?!? I still have a balance in my profanity/name-calling account.

You fucking douche bag litterbugs!

That’s it! I’m arming myself with marshmallows!

WARNING: The profanity-per-word ratio in the following post is way above average (even for me). You have been warned. There’s liberal and generous use of the f-bomb and various other of my favorite swear words are excessively employed. Also, superior use of name-calling. You have been warned.


Good gawd! What the hell is wrong with people? I mean really? Who the fuck died and made YOU so important? Take the cell phone outta your ear and shove it up your ass, you’d probably drive better… I swear!… so I make a left turn onto the I-520 on-ramp, I have a green arrow, when this right-turning car decides that he absolutely positively HAS to be in front of me, so he guns it to stick his rear bumper square into my path of travel. Nothing to it, I have the left lane, so I swerve over. He then neglects (or forgets) to get on the damn gas, so he’s creeping up the ramp at a cozy 35mph. WTF? DUDE! What part of ACCELERATION ramp do you not understand?!? Fuck this, I’m not in the lane that ends shortly, so when I twist the wrist to get around, he decides that he’s not gonna have none of that and speeds up. Fuck you! I rip it open and proceed to fish-tail that puppy at 9K RPM in first gear all the way past him and then some. One angry upshift later I finally get that shit back under control. Damn! Cold tires. Ooops…. forgot about that. Shit, now I’m mad, because (as much fun as that is) I now left about 1,000 miles worth of rubber on the damn ramp, because of this stupid idiot. Shit or get off the pot, man! I get up to the dashed white line and it’s busy as hell up there. Freakin’ more slowasses who don’t know what ‘accelerate to the speed of traffic’ actually means, and merging is a bit of a challenge for most of the bunch. I’m pissed off now. I got this ‘tard behind me catching up and a cluster fuck of Cracker Jack License owning assholes to the front. These fuckers are everywhere! Fuck this! I’m outta here! A little bit of creative riding, and a few semi-lanesplits later, I’m doing about 100 in a 55, and am clear of the sheet metal retard party. I settle back into speed limit +7 and am starting to feel calm again.

Then I get cold… what the heck is going on here? I reach for the temp controller that’s hanging off the left side of my mil-spec vest and fiddle with the knob. Shit. It’s on its max setting, isn’t it? I can’t tell. I lift it and hold it up where I can see it in my mirror. The light’s on, which way to turn it? Crap. I think it’s upside down. It takes me three more miles of fiddling until I finally got it figured out, but my fingers are already getting chilled. Shit. Gawd! I’m really not in the mood for this. I’ve had a day of getting my ass kicked at work, I’m dehydrated, hungry, and have a headache coming on. I’ve been going pretty much non-stop for the past 2.5 hours and I’m drained. 12-hour days are shit anyway, what I need is site traffic to pick up at the gate when I’m by myself, already brain-dead from a long day, bouncing around like a mad woman… arrrrgh. What else?

Then some asshole flicks a burning cigarette butt out the window which bounces off The Fat Lady’s nose fairing and disappears into the night behind me. *sigh* If I had a buck for every time that happened, I probably could buy ‘Judge Dredd’ on Blu-Ray. Inconsiderate basturds!

I’m getting to a busy part of I-520 again, traffic is getting denser and I get stuck behind this assclown pacing somebody in the right lane. Pass or no pass, get the fuck out of my way, you’re the reason all these jokers behind me are so impatient and driving shittier than they already are. Suddenly my visor gets wet. What the hell? Rain? No way, what… no… something isn’t right here… this is different… water spray? Nope, roads aren’t wet. Where the hell is this coming fro…. no you didn’t! No you didn’t just fucking throw some liquid out your damn window, you lousy son of a three-titty whore! Holy fuckeroo!!!! I’m covered in some clear crap, I will be spending the next five miles trying to identify…. fuck, I hope this is Sprite or something. Shit… what the hell. it doesn’t smell like Sprite… it’s slightly tacky… OMG! Don’t think about it too hard. Just don’t think ABOUT IT! Now I’m double-pissed…. I pass the Liquid Bomber on the left, and high-tail it out of there. At this point I really don’t give a shit about High Performance Awards or the Popo, all I want to do is get the fuck away from these morons on four wheels.

Ah… the cloverleaf ramp onto Gordon Highway… finally I can get away from this chaos and exchange it for a chaos of a different kind. I’m in 2nd gear, behind a car, I keep my distance, but when he decides to just slam on the brake right at the point where the ramp tightens up on itself, I get to practice hard braking while leaned over. Ah, fuck this! I straighten her up, slam on the brakes, and a wobble and several f-bombs later, I’m creeping up the ramp going what? Like 15 mph? Screw this. When we get to the top, we have another merge situation. I’m catching it today on EVERY fucking ramp!!!! What institution armed their patients with licenses and opened up their gates to let these idiots play in traffic? I had it, twistie-twist, I pass the asshole on the right, because I have no intention to mingle with all those rolling speed bumps at the merge point. I cut him off and am gone. I briefly wonder if I’m gonna hear about this at the next red light. Fuck it. He made me do a brake test. He’ll get an earful, I’ve already decided. Think the dude in ‘The Fugitive’: I’ve had a really bad day!

I finally made it home, sticky wet, but pretty calm again. It’s beer time. I need some chillaxation.


24 Hours Later…