Kevin Fischer is a veteran broadcaster, the recipient of over 150 major journalism awards from the Milwaukee Press Club, the Wisconsin Associated Press, the Northwest Broadcast News Association, the Wisconsin Bar Association, and others. He has been seen and heard on Milwaukee TV and radio stations for over three decades. A longtime aide to state Senate Republicans in the Wisconsin Legislature, Kevin can be seen offering his views on the news on the public affairs program, "InterCHANGE," on Milwaukee Public Television Channel 10, and heard filling in on Newstalk 1130 WISN. He lives with his wife, Jennifer, and their lovely young daughter, Kyla Audrey, in Franklin.
NOTE: THIS BLOG SPECIFICALLY REFERS TO GOD’S COUNTRY, FRANKILIN. HOWEVER, IT COULD VERY EASILY REFER TO ANY QUIET SUBURBAN NEIGHORHOOD IN
A year ago about this time, about a quarter mile up the road from my house, a neighbor placed a yard sign on his lawn where every passing motorist (bat out of hell) could see:
Motorists travelling west downhill, I repeat, downhill, could easily see the sign.
A sign that says
is like a yellow light at an intersection. Most idiots behind the wheel interpret it as, “Go as fast as you can.”
So, morons who passed their driver’s test see the
sign as they proceed westbound on my normally quiet street in my normally dullsville subdivision, and, if anything, speed up.
Regular readers of This Just In are cognizant of the fact that I fear nothing and no one. However, this past weekend, as I mowed my lawn and was at the edge of my grass on the street, I looked up to see a Matt Kenseth imitator barreling down on me.
I stopped mowing. He kept coming.
I slowed down. He didn’t.
All the way down the road to the sudden curve.
There they go.
The sudden brake lights.
Lucky the group of five or six kids in the nearby court weren’t riding their bikes into the street like they usually do.
Between now and the time the first snowflakes fly, I will shake my head many, many times. I don’t have to watch NASCAR or IRL. I see it on my own street all summer long.
Every year, I receive the obligatory notice from my neighborhood homeowner’s association. Your dues are due.
I don’t know who is on the homeowner’s association. Worse yet, I haven’t a clue what they spend the money on. I suppose I could attend a meeting. And for what? Waste my time with the other three dingbats who didn’t have a life that night?
In recent years, my neighbors and I were told our dues helped pay for the annual block party.
Now I’m impressed.
I should go to a party and break bread when all my neighbors know the jerk three houses down from me spends his time flooding City Hall with complaints that neighbor so and so has too many weeds???
Sorry. I’ll grill my own brats, thank you.
I’ll even play the liberal game.
IF THOSE SIGNS COULD SAVE JUST ONE LIFE….
Meanwhile, I know a city employee of some regard or two reads my blog every now and then. Though I’m not a fan of speed traps, I would relish seeing a Franklin squad positioned in the weeds in my subdivision, only to pounce on one of these Kyle Busch wanna-be’s.
I rarely, correct that, I NEVER complain to City Hall. But my street is nowhere near