There seems little doubt that the gene pool needs a little cleansing now and again. This assertion can be affirmed countless times as we traverse life’s roads and observe the idiots among us.
On my appointed rounds Friday, I observed what I believe to be one of the better examples of how some people should not breed, lest their substandard genes be transmitted to another generation.
I was headed south on Seminole Highway, which is more of a street than a highway, and has no real connection that I can determine with the native American tribe which originated in Florida and now mainly resides in Oklahoma.
Several hundred feet ahead of me in the oncoming lane was a young man on a motorcycle. I don’t know a lot about cycles, but I could tell it was smaller than the Harley-Davidson machines I know a bit about, but larger than the scooters that one encounters frequently in the campus area.
I could see the young man did not have on a helmet; his choice; I’m not here to preach about wearing helmets. I could see the cycle drifting slowly toward the center line. As we closed to within a few hundred feet of each other, I could see the young man had no hands on the handlebars and seemed to be concentrating on something he held in his hands.
Frequent readers of this blog know that my daily-driver is a huge, foreign-made, gas-sucking SUV, not at all a fair match for a cycle. My behemoth tips the scales at 4,960 pounds with half a talk of gas and nobody aboard, so I’m at least two-and-a-half tons, approaching approximately 500 pounds (guessing 350 for the bike and 150 for the rider) at a closing rate of around 60 mph. So, I slowed and steered right as the bike, now less than a hundred feet away, continued to drift toward me.
I got far enough to my right to insure there would be no experiment in the physics of the collision of inelastic objects, and as cycle-boy passed me, with his head still down, I could clearly see that he was texting.
It won’t be long and this moron will be cleansed from the gene pool.