Afterward there were accusations. Hurtful accusations, like I was going too fast for the street I was on. Insisting that I was going eighty, maybe ninety. Stuff like that.
Which was ridiculous. Limit where we were at was 25 miles per hour. You don’t do ninety there. Everyone knows that. I was only thirty over, thirty-five tops.
There are rules for this sort of thing, after all.
All this is beside the point. As we were heading at a nice, sedate, completely boring speed, I noticed a dip in the road. Literal, mind, not a judgement call on some pedestrian in the street. Which is an important distinction, as the former you reduce speed while the latter you put the hammer down.
Despite going very, very slow, the car hit the dip with a nice, firm jar. Beside me, Mom gasped on impact. In the back, Brother Todd panicked. He cried out, “Jiebiers!”
That’s right. When in distress my baby brother calls out to his Lord and Savior Justin Bieber.
Now the thing that gets me isn’t what Bieber was supposed to do in that or any other particularly life threatening situation. Which probably would be to pause in whatever he was doing, look around, say “Who the French just called my name?” then return to whatever it was he was doing.
No. It’s why the hell out of all the names he could have called out for, he picked that one?
This is the kid who listened to Slipknot religiously as a youth. Who introduced me to the Insane Clown Posse. Whose current choice in music can only be generously be called music. You’d have thought if he’d call out some name, it would have been someone more hardcore.
Like Tom Jones.
You think you know a person.