Tag Archives: bikes

To My Bike Thief

24 Sep

bicycle thief shaking

(Previously)

I’m sorry I called the cops.

Actually I’m not sorry, you fucking jerkoff. I hope they kick your fucking teeth in while your fat cactus eating mother watches and cries. You thieving sack of shit. But I’m saying I’m sorry. Because I don’t want you and your vatos to find me and beat my ass with the wrench you adjusted my seat with. My handlebars. You made it more “low rider.” Your taste is appalling.

But look: I’d filed a police report that it was stolen. So if I found it I could scare you, or whoever you sold it to. Make you give it back. Turned out that wasn’t necessary. Just the serial number on an envelope was enough. The shop you sold it to is the one closest to my house. I pass it several times a week. The front tire tube was bought there. Since it’s a nice bike, they displayed it on the sidewalk. With their best merchandise. I passed by. Could that be it? Nahh…. but, I’m obsessive compulsive. Had to make sure. Dumb fuckin luck. Continue reading

Weekend Journal: Crimes and Misdemeanors

8 Sep

bicycle thief

There are ants in the bathroom sink. I keep jerking off into it. Trying to hold on to the images from porn. Trying not to get distracted by the nightmare Dali tableau of the ants, swarms and swarms of them picking at the crust of my toothpaste. When I nut the first drop makes them scatter, furiously. Then I wash my jizz down the drain and with it their colony. They quickly repopulate.

It’s too fucking hot and I’m hung over as shit and my bike got stolen. I need to call my parents. Tell my mom I’m going to Mexico City. I’ve been holding it back because I don’t want her to freak out. She’ll think I’m gonna get my head cut off, shipped back to her in a cooler. No, it’s fine, I’ll say. I was just in Tijuana, it’s not like you read about. What were you doing there? Uh… Continue reading

Why Bicyclists Are Such Assholes

29 Jul
image stolen from bicyclingmatters.wordpress.com

image stolen from bicyclingmatters.wordpress.com

Walking down the street, a couple weeks ago. Guy on a bike was going down a steep hill. Meanwhile a mother was unpacking her BMW® X5™ Sport Utility Crossover. Both drivers side doors open into the bike lane. She was laying groceries at her feet; pulling out her baby in the plastic safety chair. The guy started screaming. “Watch your FUCKIN doors, CUNT!” He swerved around her. Was going fast. But he stopped. Backtracked a little. This was so he could give her hood a couple solid hammerfists before speeding off.

At the time I thought: what a nut. But now I understand. Now I remember. Because now I got a bike for the first time in ten years. I had forgotten: riding a bike turns you crazy.

You’re cranking up a hill sweating your balls off and your heart is going four beats a second and you feel every cigarette you’ve ever smoked as nails scraping up and down your trachea. And suddenly a ’94 Honda® Odyssey™ in metallic beige cranks a hard unsignaled right right in front of you. Almost clips your wheel. You are so pumped with adrenaline that you just become an animal. You have to chase the driver down. Catch up to them at the light. Gesture for them to roll the window down. Tell them: next time that happens I’m gonna pull you out of your car and stomp your fucking teeth into the curb. Provided, you know, that they’re white or Asian. African American males get to cut me off all they want. Continue reading

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