A Twit of Man, His Motorcycle, and a Safety Lesson

Last week, I viewed a rather disturbing scene, one that I posted on FB was more disturbing than a scene from a Rob Zombie film. I was driving towards Dover when I passed a twit of a man riding his motorcycle on his front lawn with an infant age child sitting in front of him. Now I must first admit this scene was distracting to my own driving, however, I felt like I was witnessing an accident (the kind where you want to look away but some sick human emotion that lies within you compels you to stay looking on). Well truth be told, it was an accident waiting to happen and I hope this twit realizes the importance of waiting until this child is older to share his love of motorcycles. I mean, this infant age child wasn't even old enough to drive his/her own big plastic tricycle yet. You remember the ones, that as a child you would make the peddles go backwards to brake and eventually by doing so you would wear away a hole in the bottom of the front tire.

Regardless, I felt as if this twit didn't understand that just because he was on his lawn with his motorcycle instead of the street that somehow this would keep him from having an accident. Okay, okay I admit to this twit of a pion of a man, that yes, you are probably not going to have an accident with another car, motorcycle or pedestrian. However, if you could have seen the way that you were mishandling the motorcycle as you tried to manuever it over those tree roots while making a turn in the yard, well you simply would have seen the recklessness of your actions waiting to unfold. What I witnessed was a man trying to bond with his child, who simply could not see that if he misjudged the depth of a tree root at all that infant age child could have easily slipped off the bike, falling to the ground and gotten crushed or run over by the motorcylce. Not to mention depending on which way this child could slip off, the child could also possibly suffer extreme burns from the pipes of the bike. So, as you read this you can imagine why I felt like vomiting.

So please, tell your fellow motorcycle enthusiasts to be smarter than this twit. And the only regret I have during this incident is not reporting what I saw to the police officer parked about a 1/2 mile down the road who was patrolling for people speeding. And I will admit that if I had seen the police officer a mile further I probably would have stopped, but at that current position as a I passed I was trying to keep myself from actually vomiting.

***Furthermore, as a wife of a motorcyclist I ask that everyone watch out for motorcycles on the road. Remember to keep a safe distance between you and the motorcycle(s). ***

Lost Stories from a Box in the Attic

The following story is a composition created by a 16 year-old boy and his older sister one summer day.

[from the voice of the 16 year-old boy] "I have gone mad and Donald the clown has died along with Mr. Caribu. Now what is left is what is myself, although, I am not myself...
No hate
No love
Nothing but the higher form of Caribu. Eat, sleep, breath, over and over. No frills, no chills, no air hockey.
The Empty, which is what I call my mortal sheel, is a vagabond, the perfect Hobo clown in the most Empty meaning. Because just like a man in a clown suit the empty must hide. The only constant is the image who is God. The image directs The Empty.
The Empty left the home of the Awakening, went down the road to the crossroads. I am not sure which road the Empty took but the image led him down the one he took. THE Empty would graze on weeds and grass but only what the image told him too. For forty days The Empty traveled, directed by the image never meeting a soul. On the day 41..." [the older sister's voice takes over here] "he goes into a bar. He is directed by the image, which is God, and the image tells him what is good, as his mind floods with the image of the peaceful caribu, and what is bad, as his eyes break under the hooves of the bucking bronco. He goes to the edge of the bar and the image directs him to look under a stool, where he finds a quarter. The image directs him to a payphone, he inserts the quarter and the image, which is God, tells him what to dial. Over the phone he hears, 'Congratulations, You're our 9th caller. You've won $5,000 dollars KYLE sweepstakes, as well as, free tickets to an opera.'
He realizes he is no longer The Empty, becuase he's no longer empty. The image, who is not God, but his god, has made him greed incarnate. Shortly after that, he realizes he must have been wrong because he was robbed by a toothless, yellow-bellied strawberry field migrant worker from West Virginia"

(This writing was composed by my husband, Kyle when he was 16 and his sister Rachel.)