Thoughts on life, love and faith by Plasticmind.

I have a confession to make.

I hate loud, growling motorcycles. No, no. I don’t think you understand; I’m not saying that I think they’re tacky or silly or just not my style. I’m saying that when those bulky Harley-Davidson motorcycles gurgle by my house at midnight with their obscene roar, rattling every window pane in the neighborhood, waking small children and causing dogs to bark, I want to shoot their riders off. I do. I jump up to the window like a maniac and glare at them, storing their faces away for the day that I snap.

Those motorcycles make me instantaneously hate the people driving them. Oh, they’re probably nice people. But when they open the throttle and bellow past my house, it’s like someone ripping open my windows, climbing through and shouting at the top of their lungs in my face that they’ve got money. «PUNCH»

Now don’t pull the whole, “it’s a safety feature” argument. That’s a load right there. There are plenty of other safety features that don’t involve coming into my house and pulverizing my tympanic membrane.

So if you’ve got a offensively loud motorcycle and you happen to be near my house, you’ve been warned. Same thing goes for you bass-so-loud-it-makes-grandma-cry people. (Jesse, that really doesn’t sound like a confessional. Oh yeah? «PUNCH»)