Sometimes I don't know when to keep my mouth shut:

"Then I'm dying on the bottom of a pit in the blazing sun, torn and twisted at the foot of a burning bike. And I think somebody somewhere must be tolling a bell, and the last thing I see is my heart still beating, breaking out of my body and flying away, like a bat out of hell."

When I was living in Florida, near Daytona, mom calls me one day and casually brings up the fact that my brother had just bought a motorcycle. I then proceed to tell her about how dangerous they are, and how every year during bike week in Daytona the paramedics are always scraping some motorcyclist off the road, and that every year there's always about a dozen motorcycle deaths, etc. I'm sure she was glad she told me...
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