I’m sitting on the couch. Being a vegetable. While I’m lying here, growing sprouts, I begin to notice a rather distinct buzz. Spring being months away, I begin to tune in to logic – to try and figure out this mild conundrum. Bikes. Motorcycles. If I could remember what they call these human sling shots in Japan, I would have enlightened you earlier.
But I don’t. What I also “don’t” is why I never happen to either see or hear these machines during the day. Never. Right now for example, I am being carpet bombed by the sound of a ten second radio sound byte on marriage counseling.
I’m nuts. I know.
At one, two, three, four, four thirty five, four thirty-seven AM and on Friday nights, even four thirty-eight, a convoy of wild hogs, castrated teenage choir singers and even a few Italian hand-jobs, pass by my house. I don’t know the purpose of this inconvenience, neither do I care. I am, however, more concerned with why.
The modern day male phenomenon is a distinct amalgamation of evolution and friendly fire. Innocuous in the real world but a real-war-threat in fantasy la-la land.
With their wives fast asleep, under the auspices of non-therapeutic drugs er, America’s in-house palliative care specialists, ahem, CNN, society’s deviants and ‘disobedients’ distance themselves from their fraternal faux-pas, surreptitiously take out their TONKA toys and take to the streets.
And to be completely honest, I understand why they do it. Complacency would suffocate me too.