There's a reason why they are called donorcycles. Do you remember my boss' husband wiping out on his Ducati? They showed him the helmet, after the accident, and there was a deep gouge in it, from where he had struck the crossbar of the power pole. Now, granted, he did have some brain damage, but it healed. Had he not worn the helmet, he'd be dead. Come to think of it, he almost died anyway from the multiple fractures and internal injuries.

After seeing Andy nearly die, spend over a year in painful physical therapy, and struggle with refocusing his entire mental map after his brain injury, I do not mind telling you, in writing, on your journal, in front of everyone, that I do not want to deal with someone I love riding a motorcycle on a regular basis. Save that shit until, god forbid, we divorce or if I die first. Capice?

Less serious:
We had a staff lunch, and the Chinese staff person and the staff person from Louisiana were in complete accord on how good chicken feet are, while the rest of us made the appropriate retching noises.