I see you every day, riding around in your gay little uniforms with sponsorships all over them. Wise up jackass! You sit in a cubicle all day and wipe boogers in the carpet. No one is sponsoring you while you ride around my ****ing neighborhood.
What you fail to notice is that when you put your dumb ass on a bike of any kind, you're considered a driver and that bike is a vehicle. That means you have to stop at all stop signs, obey the speed limit, and stay the **** out of the middle of the road. The next ******* that runs a stop sign while I'm in the crosswalk is going to get a broom handle in the spokes. Maybe a mouthful of asphalt will make you change your habits.
Just where does the sense of entitlement come from? Is it some kind of magical force that overcomes you when you sit on your finely contoured seat and peddle your titanium wonder over hill and dale? Whatever causes it, if you expect us to "share the road" (as your bumper sticker on your mini van proclaims) you better start acting like you know the rules. Take the ******* that wanted to see how tightly he could hug a turn at full speed. What he didn't know is that I was coming around that turn and he couldn't see me, nor could I see him. So, he barrels through the stop sign and there he is, just a few millimeters of rubber separating him from being a pretzel under the wheels of my truck.
I can thank the great and mighty George Hincapie (apparent heir to the Lance Armstrong legacy) who lives in the area. **** him and **** his no riding ass in the Tour de France. He and all the other hardcore wannabes should go train in the French Alps and get the hell out of my neighborhood.
