A repeat from last year's visit to NOLA.
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Friday, June 15, 2012
File under, What in THE Hell is going on Here?
EPPdF. "Good mornin'. Are you riding that bike out there? I just rode in from Gulf Shores, saw the Georgia plate on another Harley and was wondering if that was yours?"
Dude in flannel shirt with sleeves cut off - (long pause while he stares at me as if I had just asked if it was cool for me to sodomize his mother while pouring sugar in his gas tank).
"NO (you dick - implied but not stated).
I don't believe in them (motorcycles) (I'm assuming he meant that he finds them to be a dangerous mode of transportation and therefore doesn't like them, as opposed to doubting their very existence visa vis, ghosts, aliens, the baby Jesus, cellphone batteries that last longer than 3 hours, etc.).
I had a cousin who died on one.
He went over a 90 ft. cliff outside of San Diego.
He lost control on a sharp curve while riding his Ninja 750 Hellfire & Brimstone motorcycle, plowed thru a steel guard rail, sailed 75 ft. out over the Pacific Ocean, then dropped ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY SEVEN FEET to the rocks below, where the bike landed on top of him and burst into flames. The force of the explosion having completely severed all his limbs from his body and throwing them HUNDREDS of feet into the air, still burning, where again they landed with TREMENDOUS AND VIOLENT FORCE upon many barnacle-y rocks, AND THEN, rabid, amphibious, salt-water, and sea-faring badgers crawled from their watery caves and chewed on his eye-sockets and pinky-fingers until his lifeless remains were discovered by a deaf mute, who was forced to wait several weeks for a translator to happen by the broken guard rail on the side of the cliff, on a dangerous mountain road, outside of San Diego, at which time he started twitching and fidgeting and throwing his hands into the air with such an excited fury, in his vain attempt to communicate the universal sign language sign for "man on motorcycle, who has ridden off cliff, suffered violent and fiery explosion, and is currently being eaten by rodents".
But the translator, fearing for his or her life, had run off to alert the authorities to the fact that there was an insane, father-raping, homicidal, and probably tax-dodging maniac, roaming the steep and treacherous mountain roads and valleys outside of San Diego, lurking by broken, steel guard rails, waiting for unsuspecting civilians, who, thru no fault of their own, could find themselves in a terrible predicament. BUT, because of an internal, bureaucratic SNAFU at the San Diego Police Department, and an inter-organizational disagreement about exactly WHO (and/or WHOM) has jurisdiction over mountain lurking, homicidal, father-raping, maniacs - the San Diego Police Department, not wanting to bear the full brunt of the financial burden of launching a full scale beach landing to "SEEK AND DESTROY" the aforementioned maniac, complete with special ops veterinarians, trained in all of the arts of both war and removing the fangs of rabid, amphibious, salt water, and sea-faring badgers, thereby clearing the beach head for the commandos who, under the cover of darkness and using air supremacy, would sneak from the frigid waters of the Pacific Ocean, up the ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY SEVEN foot cliff face, using THE BUDDY SYSTEM the entire way, and deploy explosive charges to confuse and stun the mountain lurking, father-raping, homicidal, and tax-dodging maniac, now known by the CODE NAME: MLFRHsTDM in all official, inter-departmental transcipts.
BUT, between waiting on a SEAL OF APPROVAL from the president of these UNITED STATES, and the special-op's veterinarians having been previously deployed to undisclosed locations to protect innocent whales who, at that very moment, were being kicked in the face and snout by disagreeable, eye-patch-wearing, Guinness-addled, and anti-environmental contrarians, (see previous post), that my cousin's body, or the remains of which, sat on those salty rocks for nearly a year before we could collect the parts."
EPPdF, "So that's not your bike, then?"
*Note*
Actual conversation:
EPPdF: "Good mornin'. Are you riding that bike out there? I just rode in from Gulf Shores, saw the Georgia plate on another Harley and was wondering if that was yours?"
Dude wearing flannel shirt with the sleeves cut out:
"NO! I don't believe in them.
(terrible pause while he contemplates whether or not to kill me and throw my various and asundry parts in the bayou for the gators, or just wound me as a warning for all others who might commit such an egregious assault upon his character as asking whether or not he owned a motorcycle).
(staring with a burning hatred not seen since Plessy v Ferguson)
"My cousin was killed on his Ninja. He was a marine, stationed in San Diego; joined when he was only 16 after his parents signed the papers.
He went off a cliff and down to the rocks below and it was only because of a deaf mute wandering around the beach with some sightseeing group that had stopped to take pictures, that the body was found.
Of course, the deaf mute had to wait to get back to his people so they could translate for him"
EPPdF: "So that's not your bike, then?"
DWFSWTSCO: (wondering how wide the throat of your average adult male alligator is and whether my skull would fit) "No."
*What is it about these dang people. I get the part where people on motorcycles can and do get hurt. I get the part where a large majority of the population would never get on one. I get the part where, having lost a loved one due to an accident involving a motorcycle, you might have a particularly keen dislike for motorcycles. The part that I don't get, is the part where these people love to tell their particular horror stories, with the motorcycle, and on occasion you (in this case actually me) cast as the central villain.
Maybe they intend to scare you off the bike or just irritate you enough to ride away.
BTW, the female version of this is the woman who loves to go on and on about how difficult HER pregnancy was, to the woman who is currently 6 and 1/2 months pregnant and already swimming in an ocean of anxieties......
"....at one point, that doctor looked at me, looked at my husband, and said,
"If I'm not out in an hour tell my wife I love her and then call Big Steve at the department of agriculture. Tell him we've reached Code Tangerine. YOU GOT THAT!?! Code TANGERINE!!!
It'll be a GODDAMNED MIRACLE if we make it out alive."
Then he climbed thru my urethra with a roll of duct tape and a set of tea spoons from Disney World.
I think he had a rusty miner's helmet for light but I can't be sure. By that time, those special brownies Gerald makes every New Years had kicked in and everything got fuzzy for a few months.
I think I called little Jerry "Emperor Hirohito" until he reached kindergarten, on account of the fact that he refused to leave my uterus until the doctors got out the heavy explosives.
But I'm sure YOUR delivery will just be a regular ol' piece of cake Sugar but, just in case, here's Big Steve's number........"
* "Sometimes, they're aren't enough rocks" *
Just after the sleeveless wonder left, I went for another cup of coffee and found the Actual Harley Owner inside.
EPPdF: "Good morning. Is that your bike outside? I just rode in from Gulf Shores, saw the Georgia plate on another Harley and was wondering if that was yours?"
Actual Harley Owner (50ish with thick British accent): "Yeah. I saw your Springer out there."
EPPdF: "Yeah, love that bike. Where you guys from?"
AHO: "Atlanta"
EPPdF: "Oh, Cool! Me too. "
AHO: (with an attitude that is both detached and irritated, "Yeah. That's, uh..... that's something."
EPPdF: "Well, if you get a chance, US 90 thru Biloxi is really a nice ride. Came in that way yesterday."
AHO: mumbling something British into his coffee, "yeah, will do, havammmphthhinneworleantmpaohelllmm"
EPPdF: "Ok, I'll definitely keep that in mind"
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