Dead Meat, Suckah!

So, I have a dream…ok, a nightmare, really…where I am struck by a moving automobile. Call it my “phobia”. Perhaps the fear is a remnant of the time long ago when I was a senior traveling to Seattle for All-Northwest Choir. There, in some hotel in some burb which they felt was appropriate for unsupervised adolescents, we underage musical vagrants proceeded to engage in antics typical of stoopid hormone-induced pre adults. That is, we got nekkid in the hot tub. But in addition to exploring the limits of our modesty we went running about (fully clothed) in search of food and beverage. I was walking along a sidewalk outside the hotel and preparing to cross the street with two lovely singers with whom I wished to imbibe Jolt Cola and Zingers. Distracted as I was with their beauty and pocketless skin tight jeans, I proceeded to step onto the crosswalk assuming that the walking light was in my favor (as it should always be, right?) What I did not expect was the 18-wheeler diesel truck careening around the corner ignoring the yield to pedestrians. The girls screeched, the truck honked, I froze. If my reactions were anything less that the mongoose at age 18 I would have been asphalt roadkill. As I later learned in Austria, pedestrians are given pretty much the same title as roadkill. “Es ist mir Wurst”, or “It’s sausage to me”, are how pedestrians are referred by scrupulous drivers. Sausage. Mind the crosswalks people.