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rage against the machine (and the jerks who drive them)

IMG_20140630_155933093_HDR

jackass on loud motorcycle

I have a terrible confession.   I entertain dark thoughts.   Violent fantasies.

It usually happens when I’m sitting on my balcony and one of those motorcycles with the cranked up mufflers comes thundering down the hill at 9 million decibels.   I imagine that, with perfect timing, I pour a bucket of water down, drenching the motorcyclist and the street.   It makes me feel good, no great, to see the shocked driver spin out of control.

The daydream continues as the driver, with the motorcycle on top of him skids out, violently ricocheting between the parked cars and buildings lining the narrow street.   He is smashed.   Bloody.   Most probably dead.   I am now a murderer and I’m not sure how I feel about it.

On one hand, the guilt is a heavy burden.  But something had to be done.   Not just for me, but for all of mankind.   Well, at least whoever falls in the audio range of the bike, which I’m fairly certain includes Northern Italy and Switzerland.  But murder…Can I live with that?

Now that I’m confessing, I might as well also cop to the fact that the other day I heard a skid and a crash followed by anguished yelps.   I ran to the balcony to see what happened and saw it was a downed motorcycle and driver.   I did a happy dance before calling emergency services.

Before you label me a terrible person (which I probably am), you have no idea how obnoxious and annoying they are until you’ve lived in a fairly popular French village.   Mere de Dieu!

I can block out a lot of noises, but that particular din pierces through everything.   It’s like a jackhammer to the head.  I don’t know what the decibel level is, but I do know it’s the worst form of noise pollution, probably qualifies as torture and offenders should be prosecuted.   No tortured.   No, executed.   No, tortured AND executed.

I mean seriously, only a dangerously insane person wants to make THAT much noise.   Who else would want to inflict that kind of suffering on innocent people who are just trying to have a thought, conversation or watch a movie?   Clearly they must be  card-carrying sociopats.   Either that or they’re recklessly overcompensating for something.   Some shame or deficiency.   Small ears, perhaps? A high squeaky voice? A complete lack of physical presence?  Whatever,  they’re a danger.

Worse, these mother effing a-holes, use their size to muscle their way through pedestrian zones and quaint ancient villages.   It’s disturbing the peace at the very least.  And illegal.   I guess the French legal system deals with loud vehicles in pedestrian zones the same way America’s deals with assault weapons (which are also very loud, I’m told).

Lets not forget that the insufferable noise itself poses a threat, and not just to eardrums   I’ve come precariously close to injury when the sound exploded through my windows, shattering my focus, which left me unable to maintain my balance during a yoga pose.

IMG_20140913_185645921_HDRI read somewhere that there are some enthusiasts who argue that the horrific noise they inflict on humanity makes their lives safer from accidents because the noise forces other drivers to notice them.   To them I say, bull hickey!   You chose to ride that infernal machine.  Don’t inflict your goddamn choice on the rest of us.   Drive defensively, wear a helmet and put a cork in your goddamn exhaust pipe, you goddamn self centered sociopath with small ears and a squeaky voice and zero physical presence!

I know I’m not the only one who feels this way.   I’ve seen people shake their fists and middle fingers at them as they roar past. Some people grow red with rage when discussing them. Some peoples’ blood pressure rises precipitously at their mere mention.   We hate them with a white hot passion.

Someday, we’ll all rise up against them.   In the meantime, I’ll be sitting on my balcony.   Watching. Waiting. Dreaming.

5 Responses

  1. Hi–Feeling better but after operation my right foot hurt and was swollen. It is shrinking. Speaking of feet great picture of yours but the watering can was a bit much. The plants look healthy, how are you? love, Dad

    Date: Sat, 13 Sep 2014 17:11:22 +0000 To: leftystern@hotmail.com

  2. As a rider, I can simpathise. I have the stock exhausts on my bike which I find a plenty loud enough to be heard, but are not head shakingingly loud (I can barely hear it warming up in the driveway) but there is a person on my street who had exhausts so loud it sounds like he’s right pursue my bed room window! All you can hear is a roar and all the dogs in the neighborhood barking in shock and fear. If I find him I’m going to put a potato in his pipe! We’re not all bad lol🙂

    • Hi Archetypicalone,
      I have to admit, I held my breath after the “As a rider,…” part. I thought you were an evil, loud biker coming after me!
      I would never lump all bikers together. I’m sure that you are a perfectly lovely person and I would never fantasize about dumping water on you.
      Let me know if you need any potatoes. Red? Blue? fingerlings? Or just your good old fashioned russets?

  3. Hahaha autocorret fail – peruse is supposed to be outside🙂

  4. My theory is a simple: hog riders suffer from penitis smallitis. The louder the noise, the smaller the dick.
    Moreover, in the US, particularly in the South East, you also have the added Dennis Hopper wannabe syndrome. Them be the Boomer glory boys — not for nuttin’, that name!
    It’s the balding pot bellied former shoe salesmen from Jersey in their mid 60s, suddenly reliving the lives they never lived that are the worst: in point of fact, they did not join the counterculture, they did not rage against the Nixon war machine, and they did not get the hippie girl.
    Instead, they suffered a mostly disappointing life, full of small disgraces, and now, now, now that SS has kicked in, it’s hog time.
    Time to angrily piss on the “lefties.” Watch FOX news incessantly. Make sure to time those necessary early morning shop rides to Publix (to buy that 4-pack of Nat Ice tall boys of course) with Rush’s morning show.
    And rail against anybody who doesn’t like the “hog” — which either refers to the Harley itself (bought on credit of course), or the fat aging biker babe that usually comes with it,.

    I say: Screw them all, the Euro or the Sunshine State versions. Antibes is the dream.

    Do you still live there, or have you returned to Manhattan, from whence I too have fled?

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