The Blogging Affairs Desk

The wife and I had a wonderful evening last night.  We went out on the town, did a little light shopping, held hands, got a beer and some (gross, disgusting, blech) pizza, looked at a collection of glass dildos… Ang summed it up perfectly when she said “it feels like we’re still dating.”

She looked so hot too, I kept stealing these little glances at her all night, and she was the most beautiful woman out under the moon.

It all came to a crashing end this morning around 0730 when the sounds of an obnoxious asshole on his fucking Harley was not just gunning his throttle, but laying on it, hard, right out front of our open bedroom windows.

Listen:  I own a bike, and I love the freedom of riding, the thrill of taking high speed corners, the sound of a deep, low grumble of chrome pipes, the whole bit.  And yes, I believe because of a process of nearly being killed by some half distracted motorist at least once every time I take a ride, that loud pipes do tend to save more lives.

Watch as some D-Bag texting from behind the wheel gets jerked back to reality as you crank your throttle right next to his driver’s side window because he’s about to smoosh you off the side of the road, while trying to merge, not understanding that “Yield” sometimes means “STOP FUCKER!”

But just because you own a big mean muscly motorcycle does not give you the right to bomb down Main Street at seven-fucking-thirty in the morning, on a Saturday, and rattle every window within a quarter mile.  And to do it at least four times within half an hour, is fucking tits.

We were both jarred out of our sleep at 730 when this asshole made his first, obnoxious pass.  Our little apartment is right at the end of the Main drag here in town, by a three-way-stop intersection.  We tend to hear a lot of the traffic, the idling delivery trucks, the cars with the whiny, loose belts, and yeah, the ever present summer motorcyclist who has to roll to the stop sign with his engine glug-glugging.  But this guy, and it was the same guy all morning, and he’s still out there, because every half hour or so I hear him screaming by on the other side of the house, was just laying it down so fucking thick, at such an ungodly hour.

After 8 am, sure, dude, do your thing, most people are up, unless you’re an alcoholic or work third shift.  But any time before 8 am on a weekend, you’ve got to be kidding me.

So in the end, I discovered another side to my growing adulthood and I leaned over and called the local cops, still in somewhat of a sleepy shell shock.  I was so out of it, that when the dispatcher picked up the phone I had to ask if I had contacted the police department.

“Yes, this is the ______ police department, how can I help you?”  She said.

“Yeah hi, I’m over at _____ by _____ and this guy… this guy on his motorcycle has been just, bombing up and down the street since about seven-thirty and it’s really obnoxious,” and the teenager who still resides part time inside of me (for instance, ask Ang about the long boards I was looking at last night at the local surf shop) screams in protest, a wailing deathchoke.  “Can you guys, like, send someone down here to… and you know, I have a motorcycle too, but this is just out of control, you know?”

The woman on the other end of the phone has to have me stop and slow down my gravely babble and take the notes I just gave her.  She repeats everything back to me and has me spell out my last name.  She tells me she’ll forward it up to the head officer in charge, which is, from my experience, a polite way of saying “thanks for calling, but we’ve got more important shit to deal with, go back to bed.”

As I’ve stated already, this guy is still out there, and the cops haven’t done a thing yet.  Maybe I was the only person to complain, because typically when enough people complain, something gets done about it.  At least a patrol car will slowly meander up the street – make a presence or something.

But now, unprohibited, this jackass has been flying what I assume is to be an F16 Tomcat engine on a motorcycle frame, up and down the streets all morning.  I may take Ang’s suggestion as she left for work this morning, and lean out of the bedroom window with my shotgun and blast this asshole into the next life.