Roving Ruffians Raising a Ruckus

Val has a new thorn in her side these days. A bone of contention. A bug up her butt. Or as Luka once asked Abby on ER, "Why do you make a big problem out of everything, like you have an insect in your anus?"

For the past week, we've had two kids on 4-wheelers tearing up and down our gravel road at about 50 miles per hour. That is not an exaggeration. They FLY by, a trail of dust kicking up like we're entering a new Dust Bowl. The dust isn't their fault. All vehicles kick up the dust, even at slower speeds. But these kids need to slow it down. Someone is going to get hurt, probably THEM.

A guy who never contributes to the road gravel kitty has suddenly put several loads of rock down. It's loose, and extra-dusty. Hick was about to thank him on the Facebook page of our unofficial association, like our neighbor did, but then he got to grousing about how this guy would never pay up, along with everybody else when we hauled rock and the tractor guys spread it.

"It's his turn by now. If it was anybody else, I'd thank them, and go offer some money. But not for him."

Then Hick saw the big flat-bed trucks that haul away giant rocks that people sell off their land. Like the ones down behind the house that Hick is holding onto for our retirement nest egg. Hick figured THAT'S why this guy had rock hauled in for the road. So the giant trucks wouldn't get mired down if the rains come.

Anyhoo... that's the real danger I can see (through all this dust). For a big flatbed truck loaded with rocks to run up on somebody in that cloud of dust. They don't go slow, the Rockers.

Now there's ANOTHER reason to be thorn-sided and contention-boned about the 4-WHEElers. They have been cutting donuts down at the mailboxes! Throwing that fresh gravel out onto the blacktop. I can barely stagger across there without turning an ankle or blowing out a knee.

There previous day, there was not rock on the blacktop. There was a clear demarcation where gravel ended and pavement started. You can see the faint curve of their donut trail.

I'm sure it's great fun for them, getting to the end of the road, careening on two wheels, throwing gravel in a cloud of dust. For me, walking, not so much.

Here's a clearer view of their gravel-throwing donut track. And also something that can't be blamed on them. The burn-out marks of a different kind of anus-insect.

Is it wrong of me to wish that such a car might skid over to the concrete edge of the bridge? Not to hurt anybody, but to... perhaps... knock a tire loose from the rim?

Good thing nobody is crossing my lawn. I'd have a dislocated shoulder from shaking my fist.