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Posts Tagged ‘insects’

I have discovered the three insect laws of the motorcyclist:

Insects are better than a doctor at testing your reflexes; they will home in on your knee like a marine sniper causing you wildly kick your foot in the air while loudly exclaiming “Yow! What the f*$%k was that!”

Which brings us rule #1:  Bugs f*$%king hurt.

Some of the larger insects, moths, dragon flies, giant effing bees, will eschew the practice of their smaller cousins and instead of aiming for your more vulnerable points (shins, fingers, etc.) they will fly straight at your face, splatting spectacularly all over your visor. This causes you to silently cuss all of insect kind and squint through the smeared bits while praying you don’t hit anything.

Rule # 2: the larger the bug the more likely it will splat all over your face. (And if you’re not wearing a helmet, God help you)

There is a species of insect out there that is the green beret/navy seal of its kind. This insect is known as F.B.B. or “fucking bastard bug”. This name arises from the chant issued after you, the victim, have just had said F.B.B. fly up your sleeve and wage unholy war on your now unprotected flesh, biting you approximately 40 times and working its way perilously close to your waistband before you even realize you are under attack. This causes you to start issuing war cries and flail your flesh like it’s the last thing keeping you from Heaven while simultaneously clamping the brakes and swerving to the side of the road. Once safety parked you proceed to swiftly undress and flinging your cloths about while jumping around and slapping at yourself; looking somewhat like a masochistic chicken attempting flight. This provides no end of amusement for the fucking bastard bug and various passers-by.

Which brigs us to the final rule , Rule # 3: Bugs are assholes

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The bzz-bzz of the night; the crystal quality of hum from fans energized by the burning of long dead ancestors; empty bottle, bitter fluid of mystic properties; one light, achingly bright.  These things move around me, above me, through me.
The power of creation, the spark which runs our daily lives, it wakes me. It wakes me with its incessantly demanding yet systematic ring.
Pounding clutter-stomp of feet, voices from an empty, empowered box, scuffle-stomp, the clink of a new bottle opened.
This is my life and night. Tonight is quiet; well down here, under the laughter of the box, the stomp of restless feet, friends, it is quiet.
Down here it’s the bzz-bzz of the night and the accompanying hum of my fan. Down here is my surcease, my comfort and my smile. This empty bottle mocks me. It laughs and I grin. “Soon”, I say, “Soon I will rejoin the zoo that is upstairs.”
But right now I enjoy the repartee I have cultivated with my buzzing and humming companions.

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