Truesday: Taking The High Road

You and all the other terror-funders, all alone in your four-wheeled steel mega-skates of hate. Mentally preparing yourselves to middle manage some shit before you eat Cannoli Joe’s leftovers. Spinners and stereos and baby seats.

Yeah, while you and your other bubble people are mercilessly burning the ghosts of dinosaurs long since passed, I’m out here inhaling your shit results. And man, I gotta say, it makes me feel like a better person than you. Like, Jesus better. While your mouth is all agape with impressedness, go ahead and roll down your window, Rapunzel. Let down your ratty mane of ignorance. Take a long gander at moral superiority. Check my dope shades. Smell the sweat. Yeah. Suck it in.

I’m on a bike.

But make no mistake, this isn’t like the time I went vegetarian in high school or when I started telling everyone in college that I was an atheist. No sir. I was just attention-starved back then, and that tomfoolery was just playtime. A dry run. Though it felt pretty good to have people believe I was so much better than them back then, it wasn’t complete fact. I ate Taco Bell a few times and shit, let’s be honest, I still don’t even know what the fuck the word “god” even means. So, I was posing.

Not like now, motherfucker.

Now? Now I’m on a bike.

And if you get the urge to sling some malcontentitude my way, like those three middle school kids off Bouldin who throw rocks at me and call me a “fag face” (takes three to know one!) when I pedal by, and even caused me to cry one time when they sprayed me and my mactop bag with a hose (I had three McSweeney’s submissions on that mac that totally would have made Teddy Wayne look like a bitch hack, and I wrote them on my mac. Macs are expensive and quite cool. I have a mac. Had.), well go ahead and let loose your misplaced anger.

At me and this here bicycle.

But it doesn’t take a Plan II Doctor of Psychology to see that really, you’re just mad at yourself. And probably your mom for not teaching how to be a good person. And for that, I feel sorry for you. Which really, that makes me even more better than you in that I can pity the very adversary that I’m already so much better than. It’s like I’m caught in an infinitely increasing loop of betterness when it comes to you. To help you understand the profile of our conflict, here’s an illustration to which you'll likely relate:

If our self-images were to have an arm wrestling match, they would sit down in front of an enormous crowd of adoring onlookers, photo-bulbs popping, at a table carved from a single solid diamond (non blood-diamond type, thanks Kanye). The fringe on my image’s elbow-length gloves would dwarf yours, as would its cleft chin and god-himself-chiseled triceps. A true David & Goliath story, except this time the good guy (me) also has the supreme upper hand. As soon as our images locked arms mine would pull out a gun and shoot yours in the face. The crowd would go batshit berzerker-nuts and probably tear your image’s form to shreds, devouring its very essence like rabid hyenas, all the while celebrating the limitless glory that is myself with trophies and plaques and the most triumphant high fives the universe has ever given birth to. That’s how much better we’re talking here.

Because of the bike, see?

So go ahead and have your fun. Sneer about how my “bitch ass’ll melt come August”. Whatever, dumbass. Like a human being could melt. You need to record that shit when you mouth it off and listen to it later. Better yet, use a video camera and be bewildered by your own ridiculous airs of self-satisfaction. You’ll want to send me flowers you’ll feel so wrong.

Make sure the flowers’ card is addressed to me and my bike.

"Smug cyclist," you say? Well fuck you. Unless by "smug" you mean "clearly superior human being”, which if that's the case, then I salute your attempt at humility.

Now, speaking of humility, if you’d be so kind as to wait for me to slowly pedal through even though it’s clearly your turn at this stop sign, I’m late for a Nader rally.

Unless you’re going, too.