Apr 15, 2008 20:51
Cyclists. They come up behind you and ding their little bells, apparently completely unaware that there is any other method of signaling their presence that will not cause a lesser degree of downright fury. When I hear that ding, I feel the immediate urge to execute a brutal beating with a bike pump, an overflowing of wrath ultimately culminating in a cycle-related homicide.
I feel like I'm standing in line with a diminutive old lady behind me. One who insists on politely coughing her way to my attention, when all she really achieves is disingenuously broadcasting to the world the fact that she has a nasty case of bronchitis.
Far be it from my intention to say that cyclists carry infectious diseases, though one can never be too careful. Rather, stop with the dings. There is no place for dinging on footpaths. The sidewalk remains the last bastion of human decency in the city, and this is largely because everybody studiously ignores everybody else. Shame on those who debase this sacred haven with impersonal and aurally offensive dings.
There is another, far more personal aspect to the cyclist's disregard for his fellow pedestrians - if I may use the term very loosely indeed, you foul cuckoos of the pedestrian world. Cyclists want to be drivers. It is their secret hope, their most deep desire. They see the people driving their bitter faces all around town in their bitter cars, bitterly honking their horns at anyone who looks a bit less bitter than them. They see these people, and they want to be them. You can see it every time they ding at you. They have a gleam of satisfaction in their eyes, a knowing look that says: Yes, I just dinged you, and yes, I'm going to go home and cry because I hate myself and hate my life.
I'm generous. I'm happy to share my footpath with your huge, infernal contraptions. Please add the following to your lexicon, though: Excuse me; Sorry; Thanks.
Or next time I hear a ding I might just kick your rear tyre out from underneath you, you frigging jerk.
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