They actually call themselves “Bikers”

Bikers – and the fuel guzzling, carbon monoxide belching machines they ride – represent the kind of Freedom we once revered in this country; a kind of Freedom that, these days, every last media maggot, soccer mom and save-the-gay-tunas political hack would like to see destroyed during their sorry-assed, group-hug-punctuated lifetimes.

Bikers are loyal, honorable and astoundingly generous beings who contribute their vitality and uncompromisingly free spirits to innumerable worthy community goals. You know, goals like raising money for crippled children…

Okay, so they make fun of crippled children too, but who among us hasn’t snagged a wheelchair at their local hospital and sped away through the Intensive Care corridors doing their best South Park “Timmaaaaaaaay…!”?

Bikers also raise money for various women’s causes, too. You know, causes like raising money for battered teens…

Okay, so they raise the money and spend it down at the local titty bar during the Cookie Dough Wrestling Finals, but they’re still helping “battered” young women with their hard-earned biker bucks, aren’t they? Yeah, I thought you’d see it my way once I drew you a dirty picture.

Yes, I truly love that kind of biker, but… Those bikers aren’t whom I’m talking about today. I’m talking about the two-wheeled terrors that don’t kick-start their wheels; they unlock them. Their names don’t have a noble ring like Land Shark, Dead Pan or Skull Fuck. No. They usually go by Brad, Muffy or Wendy – and they’re the bane of America’s roadways.

These wastes of skin are bicyclists, and they must all pay. ALL of them.

There’s not a fossil-pussy octogenarian or blind-drunk fourteen-year-old in a stolen car who can match the reign of untold street havoc that a spandex-clad, Down’s Syndrome-helmeted, purified water-bottle-toting bicyclist unleashes whenever “it” clamps its pedicured little feet into those S&M pedal jaws and hits the road. These freaks of nature actually have the balls – little, tiny balls that can’t get squashed when they sit on that sissy little “squishy breast” seat – to call themselves “bikers.”

I have a better name for them. I call them “targets.”

As a matter of fact, I think you should all start referring to them as “targets” too. It’s a GoPostal kinda thing. It’ll be our little joke. And we all know that there’s no better joke than one that is expressed at the expense of a lesser being’s feelings, right? Right.

The best thing about “targets” is that they’re too self-absorbed to realize there are some of us who aren’t getting dangerously close to their legislatively protected space because we’re not paying attention, but because we are paying attention. Hell, we’re aiming at you, dumbass!

I can hear the whining now: “Maybe they’re doing their part to save the environment.”

So am I. That’s why I’m aiming for ‘em. It’s for the children… MY children.

“I ain’t got time to bleed…” but apparently, they do. I have to share the road with these politically correct suicide cultists like they own the whole goddamned street – MY STREET… THE ONE DESIGNED FOR MY AUTOMOBILE! “Targets” blow stop signs, ride through crosswalks, time their blindside approach to the exact moment I want to turn right, cut across traffic (at less than half its speed), sit in the middle of intersections waiting to make a left-hand turn – the list goes on and on – but they’ll bitch when they’re lying underneath my car with a severed artery spraying all the students passing by the Liberal Arts College.

Yeah, they may be on a full scholarship to MIT, but not one of the arrogant assholes understands the basic physics of a 3608-lb. Hemi ‘Cuda approaching their 145-lb. ass on their 25-lb. Schwinn. I can assure you, though, that the County Coroner will still be laughing a week after the autopsy.

I know. You’re pissed because you never thought to start a roadway pissing contest with a vastly inferior product and its rider. Take heart. I didn’t know what fun it was until I was in high school. That’s when a friend of mine reached out of my passenger window and shoved some asshole on a ten-speed over onto the high curb. That genius was leaning against my door to balance himself at a stoplight, but, because they all seem to think they’ve got magic powers over the rest of civilized (read: “car driving”) society, he had his tootsies locked into those pedal clamps. Clumsy him.

His mistake. Our laughter.


Do yourself and the rest of civilized society a favor. Introduce some peddle-pumping pinhead to the wonderful world of Physics. Steven Hawking would be proud.

Hey… He’s that crippled scientist dude, isn’t he?



"Big Duke Six to Eagle Thrust... Put on Psy-War-Op; make it
loud. This is a Romeo Foxtrot. Shall we dance..."
Robert Duvall in Apocalypse Now