Dear biker riding an unmuffled hog down my street at 3:00 this morning:
I understand that the slogan is, “loud bikes save lives.” However, I’d like to posit that by being the kind of shithead who would be riding two wheels of unmuffled tiny-cock compensator down a residential thoroughfare at three o’clock in the morning, no doubt smirking as you watch glass rattle in your wake and smiling as you think of angry letters such as this one being written the next morning, you have officially put your life on the list of those not worth saving.
So, in exchange for waking myself, my wife, and my neighbors night after night with your sad little need for attention on wheels, here’s my curse to you:
I hope the next time you try to lane share at 50mph in gridlock, you get doored by some equally sad and needy H2-driving middle manager cager, you pathetic fuck. Better, I hope you’re wearing a skullcap helmet and no leather, so you wind up leaving your jaw and most of your ass on the 880 where it belongs. I hope you’re not wearing any gloves, so that you can feel your hands suddenly replaced with two balls of hot intense pain as all those newly skinless bones fracture and grind together in a symphony of agony unlike any you’ve ever known, while the asphalt grinds them into hamburger. I hope you’re not wearing heavy boots or pants, so that your ankles shatter with the impact. I hope it’s a hot day, so you decided on only a t-shirt, and all the skin is flayed from your body in an instant as it scrapes along the ground. And here’s the important bit, fucker: I hope you’re alive at the end, awake and aware, able to comprehend the miserable shit that’s just been done to your body by friction and kinetic energy. I want you to know the pain, and more importantly, the despair of your own quickly approaching death. By the time the freeway’s done with you, I hope you’re good for nothing more than organ donation and an object lesson in how to reduce yourself to calamari.
Alternately, I hope you buy a muffler.
Either way. Fuck you.