All I want for Xmas...

Before .............

is my two front teeth.

And that's what I have, and I've never been happier.

Mere days after healing up from, admittedly, a self inflicted biking mishap that also went poorly for riding pal H. Grant Esq., I was acquanted with what must have been one of His other commandments, probably somewhere in the teens:

"as thee ride through the valley of the shadow of death, maintain thy speed, lest bro-steo scream up from behind and smite thee"

One moment, riding peacefully down an empty Sihanouk approaching the monument, the next flying through the air before rolling to a stop and peeling my freshly skinned carcass from the pavement. Ten feet away is my ride and 20 feet more are the remnants of some faggy newer model scooter and its equally gender ambiguous passengers; one on his feet nursing a very bloody melon and the other face down, laid out like a platter of sashimi and almost as active.


......................After

Note: chicken-like hairdoos don't seem to offer much in the way of skull protection, then again there's usually not much worth protecting. (Oddly enough, somehow my hair never looked better... and that's a shame.)

The Mob assembles as I survey what's left of my skin and bike. Every piece of fresh of scar tissue is scrubbed off and then some, as well as an outstretched hand-sized patch over the left love handle. The Blue Bomber's kickstand is snapped in two and the left peg is bent 90 degrees forward under the frame. Somehow, the right one sustained a similar fate. The little bastards must have been flying.

My attention turns to The Mob who I'm shocked to learn are on my side, stating that the sheepish and bloody fuckface 10 feet away was completely at fault in their opinion. So "don't worry, but it might be a good idea to leave soon if you can" was the friendly advice offered which I immediately heeded. After pushing my fucked up ride 20 painful minutes back to the pad and another 20 of agonizing scrubbing under the shower, I rolled up in a couple fresh towels and collapsed to finish off the evening's festivities.

Bro steo and their giggly witless ilk are I guess what happens when you add a cell phone and a cheap scooter to ignorant but up-and-coming (at least over their male friends) city dwelling 20-something simians. I no longer fear RCAF plated SUV's, at least their drivers seem to have learned a few road manners and a modicum of common sense along the way. But when Jethrow and the rest of the BoengKak Hillbillies share a beer and a bag of cheap pills while out for a night on the town, take cover. I'm sure the locals will sort it out eventually, one way or another. Just wonder what that tribunal will end up costing when the final tally comes in.

Oh, and Happy upcoming New Year!

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