Oh, dear…oh, dear...OH DEAR!
Society is waiting impatiently in line for an express elevator to not-heaven!
This morning on the way to work, morning, you know, when the sun has just risen, shooting its deadly rays all willy-nilly into the eyes of motorists trying to rein in too gosh-darn much horsepower…Mrs. Hillbilly Mom encountered more road people.
Notice anything wrong with that phrase? Road. People! Roads are for cars, not for people. We need to get a cute public service cartoon spokesman, like the Trix Are For Kids rabbit. Have you seen him lately? I hope nobody ran over him on the way to work!
There I was, in a 30 mph zone, tooling along a two-lane residential roadway, nearing the junction with civilization where I fill T-Hoe with Casey’s gas. I had the visor down, my sunglasses on, going the speed limit to the letter, because I
tailgater I was trying to piss off am a law-obeying citizen.
I rounded a little curve by the turn-off that takes you to The Devil’s Playground, and there they were! A woman on the right road edge, jogging at me aggressively, her two feet a good three feet from the shoulder. AND on the left road edge, taking the same amount of footage out of the opposite side of the thoroughfare, rode a man on a bicycle. I think he was…now get this…it has to be a very special form of irony…along to ensure the jogger’s safety!
So there they were. Taking up six feet of road space. They’re lucky that behavior didn’t put them six feet under! Do I go to the park and drive all up in their precious jogging path? NO! I most certainly do not. Because jogging paths are for joggers. Like roads are for CARS!
Sweet Gummi Mary on a handcart eating a partially-hydrogenated-cottonseed-oil cracker! Don’t these very special snowflakes realize that their bones are no match for sticks and stones, much less two-ton metal 30 mph battering rams which may or may not have had the last set of brakes installed by Farmer H? Is it really worth dying to show people how very healthy you are? I have had it with these hipsters with no hips who think the county is someplace that cares about their 2% body fat and their fitness level that will allow them to live to the ripe old age of 150. Hey! No-Hipsters! You might not even reach the age of Preference by L’Oreal if you don’t get out of the road!
Dang! Climbing on and off that soap box really got my heart to pounding!