2005-06-28 - 3:31 p.m.

Did you ride your bicycle to work today? You did? Oh boy.

Did you get a good healthy work out while doing so? That’s so nice.

Did you help the environment by not driving a gas guzzling, smog spewing car? I bet you felt proud about that. Good for you. Someone needs to make a stand. Thank god for people like you.

That being said, please get your mother fucking ass off the god damn road.

Honestly.

Go away. Go ride your little bike in the park …and while you are at it, wipe that self righteous, smug smile off your face before my SUV does it for you, mister.

I’m tired of it. I tried to be nice. I tried to share the road with cyclist.

I’ve come to the conclusion that motorists and bicyclist cannot peacefully co-exist. You see, I’m in my car trying to get to work and do other important things, like pick up a cheeseburger at the drive through, or smuggle illegal fireworks across the border, or get home from the bar without spilling my Mai Tai.

Lord knows what you are doing. Whatever it is, it doesn’t look enjoyable, and I’m pretty sure it’s not that important. . You’re just getting in my way, Skippy. For Christ sakes, get off the road.

I’ve tired to be patient and understanding. Really, I have. I patiently sat there and delicately maneuvered around you in traffic as you wobbled down the side of the road, all the while your anorexic face grimaced in agony and it looked that at any moment you were going to collapse and possible dent my car as you rolled under my tires, perhaps even scratching my exhaust pipe with that stupid helmet of yours.

You know, I apologized to you when I almost cracked you skull wide open with my car door, because you’ve decided to sneak around me. Maybe if you didn’t have the overpriced dental mirror thingy strapped to the side of your head, you would have seen me open the door. I’d loose that little mirror if I were you. It’s very effeminate.

I sat quietly and smiled politely at dinner parties and at cook outs when you pontificated about the benefits of cycling. Great exercise! Good for the environment! Go you! Yay!

Yadda Yadda Yadda.

Well, I’m done. Shut up, you damn sweaty hippie wanna-be. Go away. I gave you your chance.

Speed limits mean nothing to you. Cars moving too slowly? There you go - whipping in and out of traffic racing down the side of the road like a moron. I see you. I see you smile to yourself thinking how superior you are that you don’t need to heed to traffic laws. Bastard.

Traffic moving too fast? Who cares! Simply slowly trudge along the road pretending to be ignorant of the line of cars behind you trying to travel at the posted speed. Who cares if we are inconvenienced? You’re on a bike! You know what? I’m sick of staring at you Lycra encased ass while you try to peddle up any slope greater than 2 degrees. Get out of my way asshole. I’m late for work.

Don’t forgot to give me a pissed off, annoyed look as I pass you.

I swear if they made Kerry-Edwards bumper stickers for bikes, you’d have one.

Here’s the deal bucko. If you are going to ride that pansy piece o’ crap on a public road, you’re gonna obey the law. Yup. Moving too slow impedes the flow of traffic and if your “Vehicle” can’t travel at the minimum posted speed limit, you’re endangering others and you should get a ticket and hauled off the road.

Oh yea, I want the bike of yours to be registered. I want your revenue to help pay for the roads you use, the municipalities that clean them and keep them in repair and the police that patrol those streets and the fine EMT’s that scrape your worthless carcass of the curb.

I want you to be able to get a ticket. And if you don’t pay that ticket, have you banned from riding your cute little bike on the public roads. Another thing, I wanna see a license plate on that cycle buddy.

And another thing zipper head, I want to make sure you’re insured. The next time I see you rolling across the hood of my car, arms flailing widely about like a retarded school girl because you didn’t give a hand signal, I want to rest assured that you’re covered, and your insurance company is going to pay to buff your blood stains off my shiny hood.

And what the hell is up with the damn jersey? Listen, you’re not Lance Armstrong. This isn’t the Tour d’ France. If I see you peddling down my street wearing the stupid “US Post Office” shirt, you damn well better be delivering my copy of “Juggs”.

Oh yea, one more thing, those shorts…they make you look queer.

And your ass fat.

Cash Out - Another Round