Thursday, January 26, 2017

Hwy 12 Is Where I'll Die






Another morning spent writing a post that I tired of before it could go to press. Same as yesterday. Today's ramblings explored the cost of federal surveillance on its own citizens, the number of deaths from religiously motivated terrorist attacks in the last ten years, and where to get special deals on midnight abortions.  

So, it had to go. There's no use in any of it any more. CS is right, there is no way to be right. This doesn't mean that I have given up for good, but only for now. 


The weather seems be starting its turn towards spring. I went for a ride yesterday after work, down the valley into a headwind to the Infineon Speedway, then back up its winding vineyard roads with the suddens gusts of wind pushing at my back. 

It's really something, that ride. 


The main downside of it are the regional dickheads that drive oversized pickup trucks and take pleasure in trying to scare cyclists by driving as close to them as they can and then blasting their horns as they pass. It is illegal here in California, of course, but that changes nothing. Who cares about the law when you can let loose a little steam on someone trapped between the road and quite unforgiving stone irrigation ditches that are anywhere from 6 -10 feet deep. Nothing quite expresses power mixed with joy as does the anonymous ability to frighten someone in a vulnerable position. It's like kicking kittens. 

They've done tests that show how cruel people can be and it must be true, because I imagine the drivers of the trucks having children, then I wish leukemia on those uninsured children. I picture the drivers, kneeling distraught by the child's bedside, unable to help, watching their child drift downstream and away from them into pain, fear, darkness, then death. 

The marriage, of course, failing after that. The wife just not herself after their loss. The child taking what little romantic love was left as part of their escape, their shuffling off of that young and barely used mortal coil

You see? It's very easy to think cruel thoughts. I do it all the time, and why not? I have to envision my own death and disfigurement by being crushed underneath a truck at one wrong move, a slight overreaction or miscalculation to sudden danger. There is that, or alternately there is a headfirst ride into a rocky drainage channel where death, paralysis, or disfigurement awaits. So, why do they get to have all of the fun? I am forced to envision my son's pain and anguish, so why not. I should be able to envision the innocent love of their life withering away in bed at home, uncared for by the medical community, then forgotten by all except those who once mattered. A pathetic gravesite marked with a wooden headpiece, faded and cracked by the elements in time, forgotten by all but two. 

If I get bored of child leukemia then I'll mix it up and have their kids stabbed to death by an undocumented immigrant as part of a botched truck-jacking attempt. This also happens right in front of the driver, of course, to heighten my schaden-joy-freude. 

Maybe I should have them raped by the immigrant also, after the bloody stabbing death of the child, as a sort of cherry-on-the-top finale. There are few things that undocumented immigrants enjoy more than raping white men after killing their children. The blood simply makes them wild with passions. 

Luckily, our immigrant goes on to live a quiet happy life with the wife that witnessed everything, and even helps him craft a defense. She likes strong men, not that pussy-assed dead husband of hers. They sell his truck to a guy that wants to use it to smuggle immigrant cyclists across the border. It's perfect for that type of thing. She puts a "Share the Road" bumper sticker on it as it pulls out of the parking lot, heading South.


See, I'm in a foul mood today, for reasons that remain hidden to me. I shouldn't feel this way, and I probably don't, but I guess a part of me does. My thoughts and feelings rarely work together. They are like American voters, somehow always losing through a technicality which only amplifies their anger. I want to maim and disfigure, but only just a little bit and only just for imaginary fun. It's been said that torture and Trump's inauguration are the only two things now known that can bring Ann Coulter to the squirts. 









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