right of way

Recently, NPR aired a show which included mention of efforts undertaken during the first decades of the Twentieth Century to teach the American public to cowtow to the automobile, explaining that Americans had to be trained to think that roads were the domain of cars, the rightful place of automobiles, and that citizens not driving cars had no right to be on them. As a velocipedist – an avid and regular bicyclist – I suffer daily of the affects of this mis-education of my fellow upstanding Yankee, who now sees the car as an almost sacred thing, whereas persons not trapped within the stifling confines of these glass-and-metal prisons are seen as bothersome interlopers upon our tens of thousands of miles of commonly-owned bituminous track.

A car is nothing more than a hunk of steel and glass and plastic with a person or persons sitting on its plush seats and being moved around through space-time by the internal combustion of gasoline, a byproduct of oil, for which our brave brothers and sister pour out their blood and tears in distant and dusty places; oil is a poisonous thing that must be pulled from deep below the earth and refined before it can be used, whereas a bicycle is a few pounds of metal and rubber that allows a person to move himself around through space-time using little more than the muscles rippling beneath his taut and ruddy skin. And yet – daily – I am confronted by at least one person who considers his souped up, gasoline-guzzling shitbox, and his business, to be far more important than the car, conveyance, or business of anyone else.

Just two days ago, in fact, as I was approaching a blind intersection on my way to the local public library, I heard a motor behind me rev up, as if the vehicle's owner intended to pass me in the scant thirty feet that separated us from the stop sign. Putting myself squarely in the lane, I balanced for a moment, waiting for a gap in the approaching vehicles before shooting down a narrow side alley. Riding squarely in the center of the alley, the impatient driver approached to within a few feet of my bicycle's rear wheel, revving his engine and making as if to pass me where there was no room to pass. Flying into the next, two-landed road (the alley ends in a yield, not a stop, sign) and barely making it in front of an approaching car, I had moved to the far right side of the lane and was approaching my next right-hand turn when I heard that same engine rev up behind me. Turning around to see what was the matter, I made eye-contact with the impatient driver, whose vehicle – a black SUV – was so close to the silver Volvo behind me that I could see neither grill nor bumper. Passing the car in front of it, the truck screeched to a halt directly next to me, restricting all north-south traffic by completely Blocking The Box, the man within it staring at me menacingly.

Turning after having made the appropriate hand-signal (I signal all turns, and am loathe to ride at night without running-lights fore and aft), I glanced back again, laughing at the impatient man and giving him a little fare-thee-well hand flick. These egregious actions caused the man to reverse his vehicle very quickly (on a one-way street, into oncoming traffic), whereupon he, with squealing tires, raced down the road toward me, screeching to a halt next to me on the sidewalk where I had taken refuge near a tall brick building. “You're a real tough-guy, eh?” the man said, pushing his finger against some sort of box on his throat. Scrambling to keep moving, I bounced down the sidewalk and started to pedal onward, glancing back and noticing the black car had a Harley-Davidson front plate. The man pulled into a gravel lane, threw open his door, jumped out, and began to stalk toward me, chest puffed up and face fixed in the tortured rictus of a man whose heart is calcified with fearful hatred. Seeing that I had bruised his ego, and knowing the human ego to be one of the most terrifying and murderous of foul things ever to grace the planes of our fair Universe, I kept moving. “You're a real tough guy, eh?” the man said again, to which I responded with a shouted, “Slow down!” The man, of course, shouted back, “You slow down!”, touching a finger to his tracheal collar before speaking, each time.

A number of things became clear to me during yesterday's altercation. First, the man's business was so inconsequential (even though he seemed in a terrible hurry) that he could take time out of his schedule to run down and harass a bicyclist who had dared to retain right of way. Second, the man considered himself more important than anyone else on the road, riding everyone's ass and generally being a poor sport about things. Third, seeing that his belly resembled a beer keg and that his throat was perforated with a plastic speaking-collar, the man had ruined his health and body by eating too much, smoking too much, and drinking too much, which had obviously filled his heart with such frustration and self-loathing as to make him a Danger To Others. And, finally, he had allowed himself to be brainwashed into thinking that roads were made for cars (or, at least, for vehicles with gasoline-combustible engines), and that roads were the domain of nothing else, causing him to menace persons who happened to have left their own homes a few moments before he did, putting them, unwittingly, in his hateful path, riding, of all fucking things, bicycles.

To persons who insist on driving cars everywhere they go (even though, of course, buying gasoline puts cash in the pockets of Saudi Arabians, who use our money to fund terrorist groups such as al-Qaida), please remember that bicyclists are simply persons who have freed themselves from the prison-like confines of internally-combustible vehicles, flinging off the foul fat-folds of sloth and moving their bodies around using only muscle power. So, dear friends, please give other persons the right of way, even if they are not burning as much oil as you are burning while out-and-about; and, of course, please share generously of our common roadways, byways, highways, paths, alleys, lanes, and streets; but, most importantly, keep a smile on your face, a song in your heart, and your head on a fucking swivel. Mahalo.

場黑麥 mentiri manufactorem fecit

a g o t

  For a city to destroy and deface all graffiti other than pieces done by Banksy is similar to it removing from its museums all paintings other than those done by Michelangelo, and burning them.


Spes Mea In Ratio Est - 場黑麥 John Paul Roggenkamp

commie don't float

  Lock your windows, and close your doors – there are commies about!

  Communists (commies), those self-same socialist scumbags that have infiltrated American society to its very core, are inherently evil, and ought to be killed on sight.

  You will find commie using such fiscally burdensome and morally decrepit things as public roads, bridges, communal parks, street-cars, and sidewalks. The interstate and intrastate highway systems are built and maintained using communal funds provided by the taxpayer, and, as socialist services that are dangerous to the American way, they must be avoided until they can be destroyed. (Switch to privately-funded road systems and for-profit bridges whenever possible, so as to avoid proximity to commie.) Avoid public libraries, public transportation, and public universities – these are all socialist holdouts (funded by taxpayer dollars) that provide services to all Americans equally. As institutions crucial to the socialist ideal, they must be avoided.

  Commies have been known to participate in local elections, where they support unnecessary and downright wasteful services such as police, firefighters, and sewage and water treatment services. Furthermore, the commie will, on the local as well as on the national level, support programs that provide assistance to the poor, the disabled, the elderly, and anyone equally as lazy, as incompetent, and as stupid to forestall buying into the glorious, inherent inequality of our beloved (free) market capitalism. Anyone who has voted for programs such as these, is a commie. Anyone who thinks that the wealth generated in America every year could feed, clothe, and house each and every citizen (if that wealth were not funneled into the pockets of the entrenched plutocracy), is a commie. Anyone who is stunned upon hearing that millions of America's children go to bed hungry each night, is a commie. Do not trust these loathsome miscreants.

  Wily and suspicious by foul, hellish nature, commie can be lured only into cunningly camouflaged traps, although it will come running readily if you hoist a red flag, or if your daughter is in heat. Commie will thrash about wildly once captured, so have your killing implement (bludgeon, cudgel, or similar) near to hand. The best bait for your commie-trap is any of the superb national brands of mechanically-separated meat product (preferably with a high sodium content) mixed with stale gingersnaps.

  As the headline suggests, a dead commie thrown into a river will not float – his body is made of a fibrous material similar to asbestos (but far more lethal when it comes into contact with the skin). Once it is killed, you should remove the dead commie from the water as soon as possible – its body will rot abnormally quickly, transforming almost overnight into an as-of-yet poorly understood substance that has the tendency to disperse before hardening, thus posing a hazard to shipping lanes and the elderly alike. As of press time, we have not been able to catch a commie to dissect its body in its living state: we knew enough not to let it live; we kill commie before commie can kill us.

  Remove the head of the dead commie as soon as you can – it might be faking death in hopes of spreading democracy and equality amongst the peoples of the world, when you are not looking. There is nothing worse than a wounded, near-dead commie spreading chaos and egalitarianism amidst your defensive lines. Wounding the commie will only enrage it, so take it down good and hard, as it will still be combat effective even after losing several limbs. Shooting off commie's leg will only slow it down, not stop it, so AIM FOR ITS MISSHAPEN HEAD!!! Setting the vile scum on fire (as with an improvised incendiary device) will only enrage it – it will charge your position and do everything in its power to burn it down before consumed by the flames. Stay alert – stay vigilant. Think of your loved ones. Think of the children. Do not hesitate.

  Every step toward communism is a step away from the American Way of Life. We must band together to stamp out the aforementioned socialist institutions. We must padlock our public schools, tear up our roads, disband our emergency services, raze our parks, smash our bridges, stop up the sewers, and burn our libraries to the ground. Only then will America be free of communism and its bastard cousin, socialism; only then might this shining land flourish once again.

  Know commie. It may seem peaceful, erudite, and well educated, but it is certainly an atheist, and a believer in small personal sacrifice for the greater common good. Mistrust commie – your stock options may depend on it. Fear commie – your life may depend on it. And remember, aim for its misshapen head, and put the bastard down for good.

  Ultima Ratio Regum - 場黑麥 John Paul Roggenkamp