Motorcycles Make Me Hostile

Or another possible title for this post could be “Why I’m So Fucking Glad I’m Moving.”  I live on 14th Street– one of the busiest roads in Hoboken.  In fact, if you’re coming to Hoboken from the Lincoln Tunnel side, you basically have to drive down my street.  Everything noisy passes under my window – all the buses, all the trucks, all the fucking motorcycles!  Grrr.

It’s a gorgeous spring day and the kitties talked me into opening the windows and letting in some pollen riddled air.  (I’ve sneezed some rather unattractive items onto the keyboard today.  I thought it best to not post photos of those jewels.)  I’ve got my fresh brewed ice tea, a nice breeze, some tunes playing…and road noise.

The buses are loud, but bearable.  Well, not so bearable when a gaggle of drunk sorority girls explodes from the doors screaming and giggling and puking.  But that’s generally not an issue in the middle of the afternoon – unless its St. Patrick’s Day.

The delivery trucks are really only annoying when the driver is all about working his horn.  I get that he’s bitter to be trapped in the cab of his office/hotel on wheels on such a lovely day, but the repeated mauling of the horn really does seem like unnecessary misplaced aggression.  Seriously, that guy needs to watch some Twilight and take his mind off his troubles.

Nothing harshes on my mellow like the repeated staccato explosions of those crotch rockets.  I just want to scream, “Sorry about your penis!” every time one goes by.  (I had to retire the practice after my neighbors complained.)  How is riding such a thing even remotely pleasant?  I see the allure of the sun, the wind, the speed…the imminent gory painful death where the only thing louder than your screams is the rumblings of your biker gang buddies speeding away from your bloody form.

Granted, I’ve never been the bungee-jumping, sky-diving, bear-taunting type.  I think life is generally exciting enough without actually inviting death and disfigurement into the equation.  I fully admit I may lack the gene that makes a person climb onto what is essentially a propane tank with wheels in order to slalom between speeding cars on the Jersey Turnpike.  Hell, I don’t even get skiing.  Let’s strap 2×4’s to our feet and hurl ourselves down an icy mountain.  No thanks.  I’d rather listen to that pan flute guy in Times Square for fourteen hours straight.

Anyway, the moral of the story is these biker bitches are sucking out the zen of my spring day!  They roar by my window damn near every fifteen minutes and rip me from my vampire daydreams.  Fuckers.  In my utopia there are no motorcycles.  No SUV’s while we’re at it.  And damn sure no Rod Stewart or legwarmers or non-alcoholic beer.  What are the odds of my utopia being less than thirty minutes from midtown Manhattan?

Suffice it to say, I won’t be joining the HMC any time soon.


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