I love bikers. When the husband-man was either deployed or in school I used to travel on my own with the kidlets quite a bit, and I always felt safest when we stayed in hotels that had a row of motorcycles out front. There's something oddly comforting about great big, bearded men in leather vests.
Having said that, if you're on a motorcycle on the highway and you're NOT one of those great big leather-clad riders, I tend to doubt your skills and/or knowledge. We've seen some pretty freaking stupid bikers. You know the ones, those kids that weave in and out of traffic, with no helmets, wearing flip-flops.
Last weekend we drove up to Tucson, which is about an hour away. On the way back home we found ourselves behind a group of biking morons. There were four or five of them taking up both lanes, which in itself is extremely annoying. It's even worse when they all insist on going just under the speed limit, and no one can pass them.
We drove this way for about 20 minutes, 3 cars and a truck stuck behind this clan of idiots. Every so often a couple of the bikers would switch lanes, but there were always at least two in each of the two lanes. Finally, a truck in the right lane decided he had simply had enough and tried to pass the two in his lane by going around them on the shoulder.
Obviously that was not legal, but the freaking psycho on the bike in front of him SPED UP AND SWERVED TO MAKE SURE HE STAYED IN FRONT! I really thought he was going to get hit. It actually almost looked like he was trying to get hit. Just as this happened we came to a light where we were turning left and the bikes were either going straight or turning right. Since we were parting ways we weren't able to see the whole outcome of this little show, but as we turned he did see the biker, who was once again in his place of power in front of the truck, had jumped off his bike along with his little tribe of imbeciles, and was gesturing wildly at the guy in the truck.
I cannot fathom what he was saying. "DUDE! How dare you try to pass me, when I am clearly Lord and Master of All Interstates! I even have the Earl of Highways here to back me up and make sure no one is ever in front of us. What on earth were you thinking?"
While the poor guy in the truck is just thinking, "Shoulda hit the little twerp when I had the chance."
Saturday, October 24, 2015
Friday, October 2, 2015
What Does It Mean?
I'm not a weirdo. I do agree with the theory that dreams often indicate emotions we're experiencing subconciously. When I have dreams that I need to run but my legs won't work, or that I need to hit something but my fist won't impact, experience has shown me that at these moments I don't feel like I'm having the influence I should. Oddly, when I have dreams about teeth I typically have an embarrassing secret that cannot get out. For some reason, I haven't been able to interpret my dreams about muppet play-dough stick feet. Let's explore, shall we?
First, it's important to note that my muppet play-dough stick foot dream was the first dream that I remembered in at least six months. Second, it's imperative to understand that the memory of the dream was triggered by some random event at work, which resulted in me doubled over at my desk, laughing uncontrollably at it's absurdity. Having thus dispensed with the preliminaries, let's dive deep in to my subconscious. Evidently, it's a really weird place.
My entire family— wife, kids, siblings, their kids and spouses, and my parents— were catching a flight from what appeared to be a combination of the Great Falls International Airport in Montana and the Idaho Falls airport. I was the last to board. The take-off was smooth. We were in the air for mere minutes when we landed again, being forced to return to the terminal for an unexplained emergency. I was escorted off the plane, where I met my wife— she had previously been seated in a window seat on the plane. After what seemed like interminable hours, I was told I couldn't fly because I had swollen feet. In that moment it became very clear why the TSA makes passengers take off their shoes at the security check points.
My wife is a nurse. She knows first aid for swollen feet. I took off my shoes and showed her. They were gnarly— fat, twisted, weirdly bent. And also, muppet-blue. Obviously, the treatment for swollen, gnarly, muppet-blue feet is to rubbed them vigorously. As I began to apply the prescribed treatment to my misshapen feet, I realized that they were quite malleable. Like, actually made out of play-dough. And formed around sticks. Muppet play-dough stick feet. Homeland Security doesn't let those people fly.
I don't recall if I was ever allowed to board the plain again. I do know that from now on I'll always be nervous when taking off my shoes in an airport. Anyone with the gift care to take a stab? What does it mean?
First, it's important to note that my muppet play-dough stick foot dream was the first dream that I remembered in at least six months. Second, it's imperative to understand that the memory of the dream was triggered by some random event at work, which resulted in me doubled over at my desk, laughing uncontrollably at it's absurdity. Having thus dispensed with the preliminaries, let's dive deep in to my subconscious. Evidently, it's a really weird place.
My entire family— wife, kids, siblings, their kids and spouses, and my parents— were catching a flight from what appeared to be a combination of the Great Falls International Airport in Montana and the Idaho Falls airport. I was the last to board. The take-off was smooth. We were in the air for mere minutes when we landed again, being forced to return to the terminal for an unexplained emergency. I was escorted off the plane, where I met my wife— she had previously been seated in a window seat on the plane. After what seemed like interminable hours, I was told I couldn't fly because I had swollen feet. In that moment it became very clear why the TSA makes passengers take off their shoes at the security check points.
My wife is a nurse. She knows first aid for swollen feet. I took off my shoes and showed her. They were gnarly— fat, twisted, weirdly bent. And also, muppet-blue. Obviously, the treatment for swollen, gnarly, muppet-blue feet is to rubbed them vigorously. As I began to apply the prescribed treatment to my misshapen feet, I realized that they were quite malleable. Like, actually made out of play-dough. And formed around sticks. Muppet play-dough stick feet. Homeland Security doesn't let those people fly.
I don't recall if I was ever allowed to board the plain again. I do know that from now on I'll always be nervous when taking off my shoes in an airport. Anyone with the gift care to take a stab? What does it mean?
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