Dear Bikers,
I want you to know that I hate you. Please let me specify. Not the big, hairy motorcycle guys; I don't know any of them, but they seem OK to me. At the very least, motorcycle riders seem to have said to themselves, "Well, if I'm going out, I'm going out in leather chaps at ninety-five miles an hour." As a smoker, I can respect that. No, I hate bicycle riders.
BMXers are fine; they've accepted that they belong on a playground. Mountain bikers, similar situation. No, I'm talking about you street bikers.
You pompous, useless bastards. Don't you realize that I am in a fucking CAR? There are so many ways to kill you, they made it illegal for you to leave the house without armor. Where on God's forsaken Earth do you get off weaving around my metal death machine like you're Evel Knievel on PCP?
And...seriously, y'all...what's with the outfits? Is that supposed to get people to take you more seriously? Or are you really that concerned about wind resistance while dragging your whippet around the neighborhood? And the colors...man. You look like you're in the Cirque du Soleil Special Olympics. I think maybe it's a cry for attention, a gang of adult children pathologically ignored by their parents. Plus, it's just lame. The only famous biker is famous for having ball cancer.
And don't give me that saving the environment bullshit. Lots of people go to lengths to justify their expensive hobbies. Just watch an episode of Toddlers and Tiaras. Wanna get in better shape? Fine. Get your workout routine the fuck out of my way. And don't give me that, "More people are riding bikes these days." No they aren't. This isn't China.
"Share the Road." Fuck you. You share the road. It would be one thing if you horse-blindered assholes actually followed traffic laws, like I dunno, waiting at a light like everyone else. But you don't, do you? Don't fucking lie to me. Y'know those red octagonal signs they stick at intersections? We stop, and then we take turns going. You aren't special just because you're on two wheels and suicidal. And don't shake your tiny fist at me when you decide to ignore the rules. Remember? Me? The guy in the CAR? If we get into an accident, I'm gonna have a bad day - you're gonna have a really bad day. It isn't a threat. It's physics, man.
I especially love when y'all move in packs, buzzing through the neighborhood like locusts, trampling unsuspecting ladybugs and squirrels under your thin, smooth, baby-like, uncircumcised tires. You cold, murderous bastards. You're basically a terrorist cell with your own little paths. These are the same people who yell at cars on Halloween for going four miles an hour down their street. Maybe you should pull Batman and Hannah Montana-in-a-stroller out of the goddamn road. Cars drive down the road, and they tend to squish small mammals. I shouldn't be having to explain this to you.
In closing, I just wanted to emphasize how much I really, really hate you. Stay on your little paths and your Toure de Frances, and don't put your lives in our hands. Get a stationary bike, where a pothole isn't a matter of life and death. Or, to quote the great George Carlin, "Get back on the curb with the rest of the children."
Thanks, and good luck.
