First off, if you own a motorcycle, you ARE an asshole. This is irrefutable
scientific knowledge. If you are thinking about purchasing a motorcycle, you
are an asshole. If you’ve ever been inclined to think that bi-wheeled
motor-transportation is cool, in any fleeting semblance, you are the carrier
of asshole DNA and shouldn’t be allotted the faculties to breed.
There are no exemptions to this mandate. A passing interest in motorcycles, or
dirt bikes, or anything that resembles a bicycle that requires internal
combustion processes is indicative of a mammalian asshole gene that has
mutated throughout the millennia.
Let us begin to factor in all of the variables that make motorcycle
enthusiasts such prime, walking sphincter glands, shall we?
[1] All motorcyclists are self-righteous, faux moral absolutists. If one looks
at the sociocultural cross-pattern of motorcycle owners, an outwardly wide
spectrum of the societal nebula is assessed; weekend sojourning CEOS and
lawless, bearded scalawags alike share fondness for the two-wheeled method of
transportation. And what do these holes of the ass genus have in common? If
you selected “they both share inherent ethos of belief that they willingly
contort, contrast and manipulate to satiate their own self-fulfilling
satiations”, you would indeed be correct in your assumptions.
Just examine the cultural stitching of several motorcycle subcultures to
reiterate my theorem:
Hell’s Angels (or any other motorcycle gang, pick your household favorite) - -
“I whole-heartily believe in my rugged, counter-culture way of life and reject
all semblances of mainstream culture, such as economic involvement and abiding
by legal criterion! (Well, except for financial gain on my behalf, which I
garner through secondary means of criminal entrepreneurialism, thusly making
the PRECISE epitome of an American capitalistic entity.) “
Policemen - - “It’s my duty to uphold the written mandates of the criminal
justice system, and the expedient nature of transportation allots me the
faculties to uphold such a vaunted, integral fabric of society!” (Well,
actually, I’m a keeper of bureaucratic measures trudging through a minimalist
career because I was too stupid to accomplish anything after high school and
suffer Daddy issues, but at least I get to FEEL LIKE A MAN and play with a
blue light. WEEEE! Why don’t you love me, daddy! Why!) “
Weekend Warrior Business Types - - “As the architects of the American economic
infrastructure, I believe that utilizing my rare semblances of leisure time to
partake of less-subdued, rigorous adventurous pursuits is a retaliatory aid
that not only helps me relax and meditate on existence, but consider the
plights of the middle class, and ways in which we all appreciate the
commonalities of a free existence (Which is fine and dandy with me, just as
long as there is no societal advancement under me. I’m working until I’m 80,
and the only people that I’ll push are my relatives, because I know they want
try to bite my ass on the way up the corporate ladder. Money, money, money! It
gives me meaning! Stay away, black people!)
Patriotic Middle Class Sorts - - “This is my way of showing coalescence with
the American fabric, and the rugged nature of self-reliance that has become
the hallmark of the American way of life. Riding my motorcycle gives me a
semblance of that pioneer spirit, a sort of freedom while still remembering
the great land of which I prosper. (I owe $87,000 dollars to the bank and they
sure as hell ain’t getting it. It was either send my kid to college or a
Harley, so it looks like Chester will be fending for himself come ten years.)”
Teenaged Adventurists - - “It’s just a tremendous feeling, you know? A sort of
physical manifestation of my own inherent individuality, and my impetus to
progress on both external and internal terms as a young adult (HOW I LONG TO
RETURN TO THE ORGANIC MATTER FROM WHICH I CAME! OH, THE UNFATHOMABLE HORROR OF
SUBURBAN EXISTENCE! HOW MY FOREFATHERS HAVE FORSAKEN ME INTO FOLLOWING A LIFE
OF CORPORATE INVOLVEMENT AND SQUELCHED CHILDHOOD DREAMS! PLEASE, GOD, LET MY
NEXT OUTING RESULT IN MY HAIR FIBERS AND CORPUSCLES BEING FUSED INTO THE
GRILLE OF A TRANSFER TRUCK!)
So, you have a bunch of psychologically repressed, morally conflicted
fraudulent ideologues zipping about the Interstate at breakneck speeds. What’s
the worst that could happen? (See: Final Destination 2)
[2] Let’s not even begin to dwell upon the notions of just how unsafe these
assholes are. If a certain drug is discontinued from wholesale consumption,
the legal rationale is typically “because the substance is introducing a
hazardous element into general society”. So, thusly, a highly combustible ball
of rigid steel and iron that can traverse velocities upwards of 180 miles per
hour would be barred from public highways and other facets of societal
transport, would it not?
According to a reputable source (probably), about 6,000 motorcyclists died in
the United States in the year 2008. Using statistically analysis, that means
that motorcyclists are about seventeen times more likely to get killed than
other automobile drivers. Now, consider the fact that there is actually a
rather large contingent of the motorcycle community that lobbies to REPEAL
mandatory helmet laws.
Think about that one for awhile. These assholes WANT less protective measures
implemented. That’s like a cancer patient wishing to have asbestos installed
in the Leukemia ward of a children's hospital, or a pro-lifer handing out free
suction cups to abortion doctors.
In tandem, theorem one and two juxtapose to paint a stark image: motorcyclists
are, by nature, quasi-suicidal and homicidal, vindictive sociopaths and the
vehicles they wish to acquire are technological implements of highway
devastation. Why not give mental patients free hand guns and AIDS needles
while we are at it? Hell, why not give a convicted child molester a job as
roadie for The Jonas Brothers?
The logistics, I’m afraid, are lost on the general population. Until
legislation passes that bars the utilization of such suicide mechanisms (or
better yet, legalizes a motorist’s right to nudge the sons of bitches off the
road), I am afraid that we must share the nation’s roads with such malefactors.
Just be mindful that the next time you see a person at the DMV waltzing out of
the edifice with a miniature license plate, take note: Somebody had just
earned his or her Asshole Permit.
