Back in college, one night at the tail-end of a party and after a vodka-fueled streaking session across the parking lots, I impulsively jumped on top of my friend’s car’s roof and screamed “Home, Jeeves!” I was still naked ‘cept for the pair of boxers dangling from my ankle, had just barely a grasp on the edge of the windshield, and was probably working with the reflexes of a three-toed sloth by that point in the evening. But of course, my friend happily obliged (as he, too had partaken in the consumption of spirits in large quantities…also, he was fucking psychotic.) and he floored the son-of-a-bitch.
It was goddamn awesome. The sudden force of acceleration, the wind blowing in my face, the feeling of being so close to the road, like I was flying above it. I was so fucking alive. I was screaming in pure joy. I could feel it! I could feel life flowing through me! Or perhaps I was urinating on myself…doesn’t matter.
Then my friend remembered he forgot his wallet back at the party and slammed on the brakes, forgetting about his defenseless passenger on the roof who was trying to become one with the wind. I was instantly sailing in the air, my nude body tumbling down the front hood and sliding across asphalt, leaving skin, blood, and copious amounts of pubic hair behind me. My boxers gently wafting into the breeze and settling down on the antenna. I remember laying there, twitching, crying softly. Afraid to see if I was still technically a male based on genital structure. My friend, after laughing like a mental patient on acid for five minutes and then vomiting next to my head, helped me up and handed me my boxers. From the height of human excitement to the unyielding reality of scrotum-meeting-gravel in a blink of a bare, brown eye (that’s poetry, people).
Incredibly stupid, heh? Yes. And if you ride a motorcycle…you pretty much risk this every fucking day. Me, I was 20 and drunk. What’s your excuse? Now I’m not about to rant that motorcycles should be illegal or banned or anything like that. Shit, you wanna ride? Fucking ride. I just want to sit here and call you stupid for doing it. Deal? Great.
See, we all need transportation in our daily lives, whether we walk, bike, take a bus, drive a car, or ride a motorcycle. All have their inherent dangers and drawbacks, but none more than the motorcycle. I don’t think I really have to explain why they are more dangerous at this point…but I will anyway. It’s pretty simple physics: you sit on top of a small, slender projectile without any surrounding protection for your body, nor anything to keep you attached to that projectile….and if suddenly that projectile stops moving for any reason (shit, I dunno, it hits something) then SCIENCE MAGIC! YOU have now become that projectile!
Hurdling through space at the same speed with the same G-force until you hit something that stops YOU (like a wall or car, or the road…stuff like that) and your body instantly sheds things it no longer needs, like skin and flesh and bones and brain matter. It no longer needs those things because you are probably now dead or severely injured beyond the chance of a full recovery. That’s what happens when you wreck a motorcycle, you become a fucking human missile. You can google up any number of horrific photos of motorcycle fatalities (and please do, they’re a gas!) but you, cycle rider, are not ignorant to the dangers…you welcome them. You are a caution-to-wind douchebag and you have made the list.
I’m also not going to ask why. We all know why. I’m sure it feels amazing to have the elements raging around you while you cruise over the road at high speeds, so close to it, feeling everything. Such freedom, such…oh bullshit. We KNOW why you ride.
Yes, folks, these are your Road Warrior wanna-be’s. The ones who laugh at speed laws, swerve in and out of traffic like the rest of us are a bunch of fucking orange cones, willingly put their bodies and lives in grave danger, all while making as much teeth-chattering noise as they can. Wrapping themselves in coordinated leather outfits with matching helmets and fluorescent logos. They are essentially running across a tight rope held over a tank of rabid crocodiles while yelling obscenities at everyone around them and doing fucking cartwheels…just cause they want to. And we know why.
Whenever someone, particularly us men, tries to act in way that is overly macho, uncivil, and aggressive to the point of causing extreme danger to themselves and others, the “why” tends to be….right between their legs. It’s called “over-compensating” and it’s something douchebags do A LOT.
As complex as the human psyche can be (or seem), our actions are usually explained by very simple, primitive reactions. We are basically still hairless fucking chimps, after all. As I mentioned in an earlier Rant about the current generation of daredevils…history shows that the less you have between your legs, you more you feel the need to compensate.
Now this doesn’t necessarily mean you physically have less down there (but we don’t doubt that for a second), it can mean you just metaphorically don’t have much. You lack a good sack of nuts. You’re afraid and timid, you feel inadequate. A lifetime of feeling like second best. Being brushed to the shadows. Not enough hugs from daddy. Uncle Johnny touched you in the “bad place” (it explains the leather better than “crash protection”). And you compensate…by over-compensating. From zero to “FUCK YOU” in 3.3 seconds.
You can’t impress women with your genitals or charisma…but you can show them how you face danger everyday with your big, bad motorbike! You never felt like you could do much of anything right but LOOK AT THIS FUCKING HELMET I’M CARRYING! YEAH MY BIKE IS RIGHT OUTSIDE, BITCH! You can’t get people to notice you so how ABOUT YOU NOTICE ME NOW WITH MY SUPER LOUD FUCKING HARLEY DAVIDSON RATTLING THE FILLINGS OUT OF YOUR GODDAMN HEAD! HAHAHAAHAH RESPECT ME!…love me.
We know what your motorcycle is. It’s your purchased confidence. It’s viagra, steroids, a strong chin, and a full head of hair on two wheels.
So go ahead and ride, motorhead. Ride. But just know…that WE know why you do it. And take that roll of socks out of your pants…it’s not fooling anyone.
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