What Lurks Beneath

The forecast called for dark clouds and rain on the long weekend, but miraculously, the clouds parted, allowing the bright sun to shine through, warming the land beneath it's glow.  Unfortunately, dad had to work this weekend, leaving mom at home with their three young kids.  Sara, the eldest, Jeremy the middle child and little Zack.  Opting for some fun, mom agrees to the pleas of the children to go outside to play.  "Let's go down to the park." she suggests, to the kids, referring to the park located near downtown.

There's lots to do at the park to occupy the creative imaginations of children.  There's the swings, a large slide, shaped like a castle.  There are zip lines and a massive fort made of wood and plastic, surrounded by drifts of silky sand.  It's everything to tucker out three rambunctious children.

The fact that it's a long weekend, coupled with it being early in the morning, no crowds have grown, yet.  The park is virtually empty, allowing the kids to run and chase one another, playing tag and other fun tasks.  Mom relaxes on a nearby bench with a book in hand, occasionally glancing up at her kids and smiling, as she turns the page.

"Mommy?" Jeremy asks, "What's this?"  She looks up to respond to her middle child, laying her eyes on the cylindrical object being held between his fingers.  A mask of panic shrouds her face as she instantly transforms into protective mama bear mode, leaping towards the child, dropping her book in the sand.

Located nearby, I was sweeping leaves out of a drainage grate, a task that normally only takes a couple of minutes, this day, I found myself extending my presence collecting up an overabundance of leaves and sand.  I could hear the kids laughing in the distance, which is always a welcomed sound.  The laughter and glee was momentarily interrupted by a concerned mother, who approached me with a small item clenched between her thumb and forefinger.

"Do you have anything for sharps?" she called out.  I turned my attention to her and was mortified by what she had in her possession.

During my orientation, there was mention of syringes and how they're often found on the playgrounds of our city.  It vexed me that there was now a danger where, if due care and attention was not exacted, there was a chance I could die.  The process of treatment was described in great detail and it was not for the faint of heart.  It really drove home the importance and immediacy of the dangers that lurk out in the world.

So far, I'd been lucky, having not crossed paths with anything as heinous as a syringe, but as I stared at the object in this young mother's hand, I have to admit I was horrified.  The needle appeared clean, as if it just came out of a box, but the end of the needle point was stained with dried blood.  I couldn't help but think how something that appears so small and insignificant could harness a disease powerful enough to kill whomever was unlucky enough to come into direct contact with it.

She handed it off to me, dropping it into the dust bin I had on my person.  She thanked me and returned to her children, who were still laughing and playing nearby, oblivious to the dangers that were lurking about.

The fear I felt now turned into rage.  I couldn't believe that some f*ckin' junkie piece of shit would [willingly] endanger the safety of others, more specifically, children, by hiding their spent syringes in the sand pit, rather than walking them the couple dozen yards down to the receptacle provided nearby.  Granted, whatever shit they just pumped into their vein, probably hindered their actions immediately following, but why the need to do it in the sand pit, to begin with?  Why not go be a f*ckin' loser junkie down by the receptacle bin?  There's nice trees and shit there, to engage their imaginations.

I was told by my co-worker that the city provides a service whereby they provide needles to junkies, free of charge, with hopes that they'll ply their nasty habits, responsibly.  This idea only infuriated me further.  I couldn't believe that this city, where I was born and raised, where I'm proud to call my home, supports the drug habits of these junkies, rather than getting them the assistance they so desperately need.  That's horse shit!

I'm sure this won't be my last encounter with an addicts discarded syringe.  This really opened my eyes and made the problem real.  I always knew it was a factor, but there's something about coming face-to-face with the evil that makes the danger more three-dimensional.

Jeremy got off lucky, as did his siblings and his mom.  No one was poked with the dirty needle, so no one will have to visit the hospital and be on the receiving end of a plethora of painful needles for the next six months.  The drug epidemic in our city, nay, our country, is getting bad.  And those participating are exercising poor judgement.  Why they choose to hide their dirty needles in the sand pit of a children's playground, far exceeds my imagination or logic.  I'll never understand it, just like I'll never understand why these fools turn to illicit drugs in the first place.

Hopefully, with fingers crossed, none of the children who come to any of our fair city's parks will get stuck by a delinquent needle.  But be warned, it's a real danger lurking out there, somewhere.

**While the family described above, was real, some artistic license was
made leading up to their visit to the park.  The names are all fabricated.**

Desperate Measures

What would you do for a Klondike Bar?  I don't know what I'd do for a delightful ice cream treat, but I do know what I'd do for a quarter!

Since the end of June, I've worked for the City of Saskatoon.  More specifically, the swimming pools.  I've worked at the Mayfair Swimming Pool, almost daily, mostly vacuuming the pool.  It's amazing the crap that I find dwindling at the bottom of the pool.  A shit-ton of band-aids, more hair than I can accurately relay onto my readers, but suffice it to say, that when combined, I could almost created my own St. Bernard.  I also find a lot of stones, hair ties, jewelry and some spare change.

It's mostly dimes and nickels that I discover at the bottom of my strainer when I clean the vacuum at shift's end.  Pocketing them, I consider it a small bonus for a job well done.  One day, I was pleased to find a loonie ($1 coin, for my non-Canadian readers).  I celebrated by buying an ice cream cone on the way home.  Today I found a dime, then moments before I was about to shut 'er down for the day, a small silver disc caught my attention in the deepest part of the pool.  "I think that's a twoonie." I said to myself, then set in motion the task of retrieving it from the watery depths.

The vacuum was extra clogged with hair and band-aids, so sucking up the coin proved futile.  I was slightly defeated, but had other tools in my arsenal.  Hell or high water, pardon the pun, I was going to fetch this monetary prize.  I tried the pool net, but the lip is too brunt, making it impossible to snag it.  Next, I affixed the broom head to the telescopic pole and proceeded to "sweep" the coin from the deep end to the shallows next to the stairs at the other end of the pool.  There, I thought I'd have an easier time to grab it.  Failure was imminent, but not an option.  Next I grabbed a small broom and dust bin, hoping to sweep the coin, which I could now see was just a twenty-five cent piece.  That little bugger would not budge, as if it were suctioned to the bottom of the pool.

By this time, my co-worker came over to see what I was fighting so desperately to retrieve.  "Oh.  It's just a quarter.  Leave it.  Someone will grab it." he said, with a snicker.

"Someone IS going to grab it," I said, "And it's going to be ME.  I've worked too hard to just walk away."  It's true.  I worked harder to get that quarter than I did for the previous three hours of work.  Finally, I rolled up my short sleeve and told my companion, "I'm going in."  He told me I was crazy.  That the water was too deep for me to reach the coin, but I was not about to accept defeat.  I laid down on my chest and plunged my arm in.   He was right.  What appeared to only be a couple of feet, turned out to be about three, but I'd come too far.  I plunged my arm in deeper, only this time I got wet.

Glancing down, my shirt was now drenched from my neckline down to about mid-chest.  "Awe, f*ck it!" I said and went for the whole enchilada, plunging my face into the pool.  With my eyes closed, I flung my arm around desperately, but unable to locate the coin.  I had to open my eyes.  "There it is!" I think I yelled, my voice obscured by the chlorinated water.  I grabbed at it, but couldn't pick it off the bottom.  "F*cking fingernails!" I thought to myself.

I lifted my head out of the water, for a quick breath and plunged the top half of my body in.  Fighting with this stupid quarter, pulling it to the side of the pool to raise it high enough to grab it.  My legs flung about, trying to steady the rest of my body, preventing me from falling in, completely.  Somewhere in the struggle, my left shoe flew off my foot and across the concrete pad.  I don't know what I looked like to my compatriot, but it was sure to be a pathetic sight to look upon.

Finally, I stood up, arm raised high above my head, with a single twenty-five cent piece held tightly between my fingers.  Water fell off of me, like water off a duck's back.  I was soaked, but never more proud of a job well done.  Proudly, I limped over to the building, where my shoe had come to rest, slipped it on and marched back to the pump house, where I removed my shirt to wring most of the water out.

What would I do for a Klondike Bar?  I have no f*cking clue.  But for a quarter, I'd plunge my head into a swimming pool and look like a f*cking idiot, doing it!! 

Holy Shnikeys!!!

For years I've heard reports of people calling 911 on a number of fast food restaurants when less than appropriate service was given.  Offenses ranging from breakfast no longer being available to Mickey D's running out of McNuggets.  All these years, upon hearing of these incidents, I was left scratching my head, bewildered by the stupidity and naivety of people's use of the emergency number.  Earlier tonight, I finally came to understand the frustration these people must have experienced.

It's been, at least, a couple of months since my last visit through the drive-thru at McDonald's.  Although buying fast food is hardly within my budget, I've been doing well in not wasting cash, lately and didn't feel like slaving over a hot stove and grill for sustenance tonight.  I was craving apple pie and decided, on the fly, to step into the nearby McDonald's to grab a quick meal deal and some apple pie.

I was shocked when I entered the restaurant, as they've all but done away with counter staff, replacing all with giant video screens, ushering patrons to point and click on what food purchases they crave.  I quickly went to my usual meal, the Quarter Pounder with Cheese and was shocked to learn the price had skyrocketed.  I'd been through the drive-thru a couple of months ago and the cost of the burger meal was a shade over the six dollar mark, but today the screen shone $9.85 back in my face.  That's nearly a four dollar rise.  I figured this was a mistake and went to the one and only counter person left in the establishment.

She was of a, shall we say, landed immigrant persuasion.  There's nothing wrong with that, but English was not her native tongue and had no idea what my concern was.  Confused, she ushered the shift supervisor over to assist me.  Sadly, his English was equally as poor.  I'm thinking that McDonald's had placed the video purchase kiosks in, specifically so people didn't have to battle the substantial language barrier with their kitchen staff.  I explained my concern that it was impossible that the price of a quarter pounder would jump nearly four dollars in less than two months, but through his broken English, I was able to learn that not only had the price of all the food at McDonald's had risen, but it had done so, several times over that two month time period.  I was shocked.

I was flabbergasted, vocalizing my disdain.  I pointed out that I could get a burger across the street, at Wendy's for less money and it would cost less.  He blankly stared at me, incapable of comprehending what I'd just said.  "So you want the quarter pound burger, sir?"

"No thanks!" I said, adding that the price was a rip-off to their customers.  "All I really wanted was apple pie.  Do you know if Wendy's across the street has apple pie?"

"I don't know what they sell there, sir.  Do you still want the quarter pound burger?"

"No, I don't want the burger.  That price is bullsh....  It's complete bull." I said.  "I want to swear, right now, it's so wrong!  Why did the price go up so drastically?  It's obvious you don't need the money for counter staff."

He parted his lips to reveal a crooked smile and answered, "No sir.  It's to adjust for the exchange rate."

"Exchange rate?  But Canadian McDonald's get all their meat and supplies from Canadian suppliers."

He continued to smile at me, "Do you want the apple pie?"  I asked how much and found that aside from the $1 drinks, the apple pie was the only other reasonably priced item on the menu.  $1.65 for two, albeit tiny, apple pies.

I paid for my fruity pastries and drove across the street to the Wendy's.  There were two police cruisers parked in the lot and I was tempted to report the robbery that McDonald's was committing on their loyal patrons, but didn't go through with the farce as I'm not a f*cking lunatic, but I did come to understand the frustration those people must have experienced in their unfortunate dealings with those fast food restaurants.

The burger wasn't any cheaper from Wendy's, but it tasted a helluva lot better than McDonald's ever could on their best day.  At least I got a Vanilla Rootbeer from Wendy's which was worth the extra couple of bucks, in the long run.

A very long time ago, I had decided to boycott McDonald's.  My goal was to not step foot inside or eat any of their food for a ten year stretch, and if my nephew hadn't been born, I would've made it to that goal, but unfortunately, in his youth, he wanted to go to McDonald's and my goal fell short by. literally, about six months.  After that, I continued my visits, as the prices were reasonable, though the food was shit.  Today, the food is STILL shit, but the prices are even shittier.  I feel another boycott coming.  Maybe this time I'll shoot for twenty years!

Impromptu Visit

Years ago, I found myself startled awake from a deep sleep.  Nightmares have never been something I've been prone to.  That's not to say I haven't experienced them, but not at the frequency that I know others have had.  On that particular night, I recall consuming a chocolate Easter egg or bunny before turning in for the night, and I immediately attributed the scary dream to the chocolate intake that evening.  Weeks later, I tried an experiment to see if I could get a repeat performance and while the dream that I had wasn't on par with the fright experienced that first night, the dream that I did have, was messed up nonetheless.

As I stated, I've had nightmares from time-to-time, but not like some unfortunate souls who are bombarded on a nightly basis.  Not to say that the few that I've had, haven't been frightful in their own right.  Usually, the dreams I have, concern the paranormal.  I see ghosts and apparitions in these dreams, but hardly ever anything to cause me to awaken in a panic with beads of sweat trickling down my cheeks, but serious enough to cause me to "sleep with one eye open".  Last night, though, as I began to fall asleep, I experienced something that felt borderline real.

I dreamt that I was on a city street, but not the one where I reside.  It was dark and the buildings around me appeared to be grey and blue in the dying light.  I was alone, when suddenly I was knocked to the ground by an unseen force.  The effort to turn over onto my back was easy as this thing, this entity, spun me over with a simple swipe of this jagged claw.  The creature appeared to be the blackest black I'd ever seen, darker than the shadows that surrounded us.  It had a faint blue aura outlining it's darkness and it's eyes...  It's eyes were the only source of light, albeit dark and grey as the same time.

It snarled at me with a mixture of anger and anguish as it leaped on top of my prone body and began swing it's jagged clawed arms back and forth, slashing me apart, howling and growling throughout the horrific ordeal.  I did my best to shield myself, but was failing miserably.  I can recall being confused and horrified throughout the attack.  Genuinely fearful for very own survival.  Then I woke up.

I looked around the dark room, realizing it was just a dream.  That I was, in fact, in the safety of my bedroom inside my house.  I looked beside me and the space was empty.  I immediately called for my cat, Monkey, to come and "protect me".  In the meantime, I closed my eyes, once more.

My eyes were only closed for a few seconds, an elongated pause to allow my eyes to adjust to the darkened room better, but when I opened my eyes, my gaze was met with the demon creature that I'd just dreamt about.  Only this time it was in my room, standing before my bed, inches from my face. It stood just under four feet tall, completely devoid of colour.  Darker than the darkness around it.  This time it looked down at me, flashing a jagged smile, as if it were about to finish the job it had began inside my dreamscape.  Just as it raised it's furled claw to take it's first strike, my cat, leaped onto the bed, passing through the darkened creature, which immediately dissipated into a vaporous cloud.

The room was empty.  What little light there was, lit up the room enough for me to recognize that it was just me and the cat who remained.  The remark I'd made earlier, pleading for the cat to come and "protect me", actually came to fruition.  He really did save me, I think.

The cat curled up on his corner of the bed, I folded my arm around him and whispered, "Thank you."  I closed my eyes and we slept peacefully, side-by-side, until morning.

I don't know what the cause for the impromptu visit was.  I don't know what the creature was or if it was actually real.  I do have a vivid imagination, but have never scared myself into a frenzy, before.  I never ate any chocolate before bed.  In fact, I had some chicken and rice about two hours before.  A healthy late night snack rather than a sugary one.  Only time will tell, I suppose.  If I survive the next encounter with this demonic creature, though I'm hoping never to cross paths with it again, I will certainly share that experience in this blog, as well.

    

(Image is similar to the creature that attacked me in my dream, only that one had long pointier ears.)

The Yo-Yo Effect - Struggle For Survival

Everyone's lives have ups and downs.  Life can be a wild ride, much like a roller coaster.  Exciting at times, scary and terrifying at others.  My life isn't any different than any of that, but my ups and downs have always seemed to go from one extreme to the other.  Plateaus as high as Everest followed by lows as deep as the Laurentian Abyss.  Thankfully, as my most bleakest of moments, when survival seemed trifle and frivolous, there was a glimmer.  I glint of light that would catch my eye, capture and entrapping my attention long enough for the dark clouds to clear and life becoming bearable and easier to cope with.  Things that made me smile, rather than retreating into my blackness.  I'm sure many people have these moments of epiphany and clarity, but I bet very few, if any, can recall those "ah-ha" moments or what turned their lives around.  I have three, that I'm willing to share.

My father died, surprisingly, seventeen years ago.  I can still remember it like it happened yesterday.  He was diagnosed with cancer and succumbed to his sickness within about a month and a half.  Growing up and for most of my adult life, he battled the bottle.  An alcoholic, he was extremely angy and violent at times.  I remember coming home from school, seeing his truck was home and knowing that some shit was about to go down.  Alcoholism is a sickness, of sorts.  An addiction.  An escape from the problems that plague one's life.  In retrospect, I suppose drinking heavily was his way of coping with his own rollercoaster life.

We had our differences, fists were exchanged, but to be perfectly honest he flung more fists than I did, if I had any at all.  However, years later, when my dad emerged from the bottle, quitting the drinking, he was the most fantastic person in the world.  All smiles, laughter and joking.  I loved to sit and chat with my dad, and I think he loved reminiscing old stories from his youth.  I heard many of the stories thousands of times and loved hearing the retelling of those stories.  Even today, something will spark a memory of one of those stories and I get a big grin on my face.  So when he died, I felt ripped off.  Robbed of all those years of my dad due to his dependence of alcohol.  I was devastated and soon found myself spiraling into the abyss.  Miraculously, I discovered a musical group that drew me out of my funk.  Allowed me to laugh, cry and scream at the top of my lungs.  Friends around me, failed to see me at my weakest and then when I became able to crawl out of my funk, disapproved of my method.

Through watching professional wrestling, there were a couple of dudes in WCW, the now defunct World Championship Wrestling.  Not only were the guys decent wrestlers, but they were successful rap artists, too.  I speak, of course, of the Insane Clown Posse.  Violent J and Shaggy 2 Dope had a song called "Take It", which got my hooked and soon I was buying up all the CDs I could find.  I had officially become a bonafide Juggalo.  I've been a fan for seventeen years and through that time, when I felt my happiness and contentment slipping, I'd pop a CD into the player and give it a listen.  The Amazing Jeckyll Brothers was my introduction CD and I'm honestly surprised that I haven't wore that one out, yet.  It's definitely one of the CDs I'd want if I were stranded on a deserted island.

Fast forward to 2009, when my life went back into the toilet.  Plunged deep into the furthest recesses of the sewer.  It was a time when I can fully admit that I contemplated suicide.  I found myself an embarrassment and a disappointment to friends and family.  No amount of ICP was digging me out of that funk.  I was alone to deal with my situation, struggling to inch my way back to something vaguely resembling normalcy.  I was at home and plugged in the three seasons of TITUS, a comedy TV show that was based on comedian Christopher Titus' life and stand-up act.  Soon I was listening to all of his comedy CDs in the car and in his own way, unbeknownst to him, he saved my life.  Titus never strays from how fucked up his life got to be at times, but he survived.  My life was fucked up, too, in different ways.  No more, no less fucked up than what his life was.  He survived and through his comedy and ability to laugh at the problems, I survived.  No more sadness, feeling of unworthiness and especially, no more suicidal thoughts.

A couple years ago, it happened again.  I'd had an accident at work, resulting in three crushed vertebrae, a mouthful of smashed teeth and uncertainty for what my future held.  I was struggling to go to sleep one night, hopped up on pain medications and lying in bed.  To occupy my time, I was listening to Doug Benson's "Doug Loves Movies" podcast and there was a comedian on the show, whom I was unfamiliar with, but this guy was fun, jovial and had a laugh unlike anyone I've ever known.  My dad had a tremendous laugh when you got him going, but that pales in comparison to this comedian.

I soon binged on as much Bert Kreischer and I could humanly consume.  I found his stand-up on YouTube, discovered his podcast, CORRECTION, Bertcast and I've become a huge fan of his TV shows and everything-Bert.  I bought his book, bought the audiobook, which is funnier, and love everything Bert.  To be honest, Bert Kreischer is someone who continues to make me laugh and keep me stable in life.  That is..., until recently.

My shitty life has plunged once more.  The worst it's ever been.  Everyday I desperately fight and struggle, clenching, scraping and crawling mere inches, fighting just to make ends meet.  This is the absolute worst I've been since the death of my father, seventeen years ago.  I'm so unbelievably broke that my bills are literally a juggling act.  I've compared it to that circus act of spinning plates.  I'm struggling to get thirty plates spinning and just as I think I'm getting ahead, one or two of the proverbial plates come crashing down.  I was unprepared for this level of strife in my life.  Of course, it's this time that I learn that the Insane Clown Posse was coming to town.  Tomorrow, in fact.  When all else seems bleak, I know ICP would help me see the light, but due to financial instabilities I came to terms with not going to see my Juggalo mentors.

The other day, my friend texted me and offered me up his ticket.  Sadly, he's unable to attend and knows how much I'd love and appreciate going to this show.  I'm not a religious person, by any means, but this is like divine intervention.  Like the hand of a higher power reached down and gifted me this opportunity.  My friend, who can't go, who gave me his ticket, is a truly great friend.  We often disagree on some social commentary, but in the end, he's an awesome guy and I aspire to be as generous as he is.

Every time I turn around, it seems like I'm getting violently kicked in the nuts and yesterday I took another major hit to the nuts, but I'm going to see the Insane Clown Posse tomorrow night.  Despite all that's going on right now...  Life is good.

SMASHED

As a very small youngster, I recall my uncle teaching me how to ride a dirt bike he had on his farm.  It was a short lesson and I thought I'd caught on fairly quickly, but soon found myself hurling out of control on a gentle curve.  It was scary how quickly I had lost control, myself helpless upon a racing motorcycle whipping through shoulder height field of wheat.  After that, I would never attempt to ride a motorcycle again.  Over my adult life, I've always held a healthy respect for the two-wheeled vehicles, but have never mustered up the courage to tempt fate once more.

Whenever I've spoken with or to people who ride motorcycles, the number one complaint that is common with everyone is the fact that they seem to disappear in traffic.  Despite the loud exhaust rumbling out a throaty growl, most traffic don't actually see, motorcyclists.  This often results in mishaps where riders can be severely injured.

About ten years ago, I was driving home from work when I came upon a traffic accident.  There was a leather-clad motorcyclist visibly shaking on the boulevard, just a few feet from his motorcycle that had been sandwiched between two cars.  Judging from the twisted mess that was lying half underneath the car in front, it was lucky that he'd escaped with only a couple of abrasions.  The outcome had the potential to be a lot worse.

For the entirety of my adult driving life, I've taken special care whenever I encounter a motorcycle in traffic.  I realize that many people overlook their existence, so I take on the responsibility to buffer the zone between them and other traffic.  I don't tailgate or anything moronic like that, but I'll happily lose some time on my travels to ensure their safety in heavy traffic.

I know that not everyone on the road, today, is oblivious to motorcycles, but there are some who don't even think about them.  Add in the distractions that many have, their noses aimed at their cell phones, rather than concentrating on the road ahead, traffic can become a veritable mine field for some riders.

Given the challenges that motorcyclists have maneuvering safely in traffic, it baffles me why some riders think themselves invincible by drinking and driving.  Driving under the influence is challenging as it is, behind the wheel of a four-wheeled vehicle.  Minus two tires and add balance to the equation, equals a bad situation by my count.

Earlier this evening, the police responded to a single motorcycle accident where the rider lost control of his bike, striking a post and dying on scene.  Investigators suspect speed and alcohol were likely contributing factors.  I know the intersection where this accident occurred and it can be a little challenging sober, in a car traveling at the legal speed limit.  Racing on what is most likely a Japanese rocket, this poor drunk fool didn't stand a chance.

I doubt this was his first day riding a motorcycle.  I would imagine that he experienced all the same challenges as the motorcycle enthusiasts that I've spoken with, have.  So why add alcohol?

I'm no angel.  I'm not going to point and wag my finger like I'm holier than thou.  I've driven drunk.  Twice.  The first time scared the living shit out of me and I swore I'd never do it again.  The second time, I was high from marijuana, and that ended with someone stealing my car after I got home, ultimately f*cking with my memory and I've never done it since.  I got off lucky in both instances, but things could've been different.  Given all the distractions and outside interference, we, as a society, don't need to drink and drive.  That's just f*cking stupid.

I'm not writing this with any hidden message.  We're all adults.  We can take responsibility for our own actions.  I just got off Twitter after reading about this accident and it left me scratching my head and asking WHY?

Speed Kills, But Stupidity Lives On

It's as stupid as the woman who sued McDonald's for serving hot coffee, but we now live in a society where people point their fingers of blame, rather than taking responsibility for their own shortcomings.

Like the parents who blame music or violent video games, when their children shoot up a movie theater or high school home room, "My child is a perfect little angel.  They would never do something like that.  They must have been influenced by something else."  Guess what?!  No!!  You're just shitty parents.

This week, a couple involved in a high speed collision that left one occupant with severe brain trauma, is suing the online app, Snapchat, with having caused the fatal accident.  The facts of the case, according to what I've read, so far, are this:  Wentworth and Karen Maynard's Mitsubishi was struck from behind by an 18-year old, Christal McGee's car, which was travelling at a high rate of speed, exceeding 100 mph.  The posted speed limit was only 55 mph.  According to the plaintiff (Maynard), the teen was using the smart phone app, Snapchat's speed filter which allows the user to post a photograph illustrating their current speed.  I'll address that in a moment.

According to Henry Williams, one of the three other occupants in the automobile with McGee, claims none of the quartet of teens were using the Snapchat app at the time.  It's speculation on my part, but that seems a little suspicious, as he never explains why the teens were traveling at an estimated 107 mph.  He does, however, point the finger at the other car. laying blame on them for "pulling out in front of them and failing to speed up".  What I think, actually happened was the Maynard's merged their car onto the four-lane highway, obeying the posted speed of 55 mph, unlike McGee's car, which was traveling like a rocket ship.  If the Maynard's are guilty of anything, it's that they aren't clairvoyant.

Every day that I'm behind the wheel, I glance over at the vehicle driving beside me and more times than not, the driver is staring down at their hand-held device, distracted rather than watching the road in front of them.  I always wish I was a police officer in those moments, so I could pull them over and issue a hefty fine.  I often think that if I was a cop, I'd lead the department in tickets issued for crimes like this and alike.  There's no limit to the amount of stupidity in the world,  It's something that often leaves me scratching my head.  I swear I've worn a bald patch into the side of my skull.

I will grant that having the capability to read your rate of travel and posting the speed along with a self-indulgent selfie, is a pretty stupid option to offer, but I'm sure the genius' at Snapchat, never thought it's application, all they way through, when they designed this feature.  Either they didn't account for the stupidity or arrogance of their users or just plain didn't care.  I would agree that the app should discontinue the Speed Filter option from their program.  I'm sure the sliver of those using the option responsibly, is razor thin and won't miss it if it disappears.

Like the person who gets cancer and sues the cigarette company after decades of smoking.  Some responsibility and ownership of one's own stupidity has to surface.  It's like someone told me once: When you point a finger (to blame), there's three more pointing back at you.  Snapchat isn't to blame for causing this terrible accident.  If anything, they may be guilty of contributing to the continuing negligence of our society.