Weekday mornings are reserved for insulated, unhurried commutes in which I look forward to smoothly coasting 30 miles due south - accompanied by some unobtrusive talk radio and a large cup of black coffee. They are not for phone conversations, they are not for early rising and breakfast-making or casual newspaper-reading, and they sure as shit aren’t for bikers.
Yes, bikers. Not the grizzled, bearded, Harley-mounted men in their forties and fifties, but the waifish ass-clowns who willingly impose the fruity nuances of their “sport” on every unassuming driver within twenty miles of a major city.
Minding my own business, I was quietly making the most of a pleasantly overcast morning as I approached the highway onramp. Then, suddenly, I was ACCOSTED by a man standing on the corner of the intersection at which I was stopped. And by accosted, I mean I SIMPLY SAW THIS MAN, EVEN THOUGH HE WAS NOT DOING ANYTHING DIRECTLY TO ME. In my world, you see, there is no difference. Thin ice? Ha! Eggshells? Pshaw! No, my friend, you are walking on nothing more than a fucking layer of warm air with me - by default. ESPECIALLY if you are wearing a neon-yellow body suit and nodding/grinning like some idiot mascot while holding this sign:
Tigga, please. Adding insult to injury, upon closer inspection I ascertained that these poo-flinging derp monkeys were representatives of an organization called the “Bicycle Ambassadors.” Whe-hell, if the role of an ambassador is to promote ill-will and incite near-riots in the minds of otherwise perfectly reasonable God-fearing morning commuters such as myself well then sir let me say that you have SUCCEEDED!
I hit the gas and put this weenie in my rear, um, view. Oh, but wait, there was yet another stop on this particular route for the Misery Bus. At the next light, a phalanx of “Bicycle Ambassadors” hopped and strutted like little roadside vermin - popping their little signs in the air and waving feebly like the saddest pageant contestants you ever did see. I was nearly blinded by the grotesque spectacle, but I managed to glimpse one more sign before I blacked out:
When I came to, I immediately turned the car around and sped back to my home. Storming into the office, I procured a poster board and a Sharpie. Equipped with my own roadside PSA after a few minutes of work, I hopped back in the car and got on the road, ready to confront my thin-wheeled aggressors:
Yes, bikers. Not the grizzled, bearded, Harley-mounted men in their forties and fifties, but the waifish ass-clowns who willingly impose the fruity nuances of their “sport” on every unassuming driver within twenty miles of a major city.
Minding my own business, I was quietly making the most of a pleasantly overcast morning as I approached the highway onramp. Then, suddenly, I was ACCOSTED by a man standing on the corner of the intersection at which I was stopped. And by accosted, I mean I SIMPLY SAW THIS MAN, EVEN THOUGH HE WAS NOT DOING ANYTHING DIRECTLY TO ME. In my world, you see, there is no difference. Thin ice? Ha! Eggshells? Pshaw! No, my friend, you are walking on nothing more than a fucking layer of warm air with me - by default. ESPECIALLY if you are wearing a neon-yellow body suit and nodding/grinning like some idiot mascot while holding this sign:
Tigga, please. Adding insult to injury, upon closer inspection I ascertained that these poo-flinging derp monkeys were representatives of an organization called the “Bicycle Ambassadors.” Whe-hell, if the role of an ambassador is to promote ill-will and incite near-riots in the minds of otherwise perfectly reasonable God-fearing morning commuters such as myself well then sir let me say that you have SUCCEEDED!
I hit the gas and put this weenie in my rear, um, view. Oh, but wait, there was yet another stop on this particular route for the Misery Bus. At the next light, a phalanx of “Bicycle Ambassadors” hopped and strutted like little roadside vermin - popping their little signs in the air and waving feebly like the saddest pageant contestants you ever did see. I was nearly blinded by the grotesque spectacle, but I managed to glimpse one more sign before I blacked out:
When I came to, I immediately turned the car around and sped back to my home. Storming into the office, I procured a poster board and a Sharpie. Equipped with my own roadside PSA after a few minutes of work, I hopped back in the car and got on the road, ready to confront my thin-wheeled aggressors:
Vengeance will be mine.
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