(Note: It should be stated loud and clear that my bike does not have a name. But in order to personify it in this post, I will refer to it as Bikey.)
As some of you may know, my new job now affords me the privilege of riding my bike to work. And as you can probably imagine, now that I’m no longer the gastropod I once was, I take full advantage of the opportunity even if it means carrying a (heavy) backpack full of clothes and my lunch.
Curiously, there are no bike racks at the office so since starting that job I chain Bikey to the outer perimeter of our patio–it doubles as a hangout for the office’s smokers–in plain view so that I can keep an eye on it throughout the day. After all, this is not exactly some cheap Huffy or Murray bike here. But upon glancing out the window today I noticed that there was a note affixed to Bikey.
“Maybe someone hit it,” a co-worker joked.
I went downstairs to fetch the note and opened it up. It was from somebody in the office with a request to call them at their extension, so I did.
Within a few minutes I was met by the note-leaver, a fellow with a feminine name who very much resembled Barney Rubble in terms of girth and hair style. He went on to tell me that my bike is an eyesore being parked where it is, and that the smokers of the office shouldn’t have to look at it whilst they puff themselves into oblivion.
Barney also went on to tell me that they used to have a bike rack outside the office but once people stopped riding to work, it was removed and he sees no sense in installing a new one for one person (me). Evidently, in exchange for riding their bikes to work, these people all took up smoking and engorging themselves at the local Chinese buffet. All things considered, he requested that I begin parking it in the mailroom so as not to disturb those outside getting their nic-fix.
While I’m cool with keeping Bikey inside, I’m not entirely happy with the way things were presented to me.
My bike. An eyesore. Huh. Let’s examine the evidence.
Let me get this straight.
The smoking bovines whose cloven hooves clip-clop out the door any opportunity they get to smoke, and the guys who should be wearing size 48 pants but choose to wear size 38 and let their beer babies / udders swing back and forth, are being disturbed by my bike being parked where they are committing long-term suicide.
So never mind those smoking used-car salesmen and tramp-stamped hussies creating toxic clouds outside the office. It’s my bike that’s an eyesore.
Fucking brilliant. Absolutely, positively fucking brilliant.
You stupid, stupid eyesore of a bike. Seriously, what the fuck are you thinking? How dare you keep me in shape, save me gas, produce zero emissions, take one car off of the road, etc. When you compare those attributes to all the benefits of smoking, it’s easy to see why the tobacco tokers think you’re so freaking unsightly and want to banish you to the mailroom. YOU’RE TAUNTING THEM, don’t you get it? You are the antithesis of everything they believe in!
Jesus, man, how dare you! That, or maybe they’ve tried on bike shorts and they didn’t hide the fat they way they expected them to. Or they’ve seen me in them and are jealous (although not bloody likely).
Ahem. Anyway, I will continue to ride my bike to work and will indeed take advantage of parking Bikey in its new garage. And if living well is the best revenge, then I’m a goddamn millionaire and my non-smoking, non-drinking, bike-riding, 100-pound-losing ass is going to outlive all of those smoking fuckers.
And then they won’t care where in the Hell I park my bike.
This song rocks. This is real country, not that commercialized garbage they call country these days.
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