Saturday, 29 March 2008


I really wouldn't care about these slabs of rudimentary ironmongery expensively packaged as a ticket to the American spirit were it not for the sheer obnoxiousness exhibited by their attendant subculture. The riders are nearly always middle-aged-because the bikes are fantastically overpriced-and so the leather gear tends to do to their sagging flesh what string does to ham.

I won't begrudge a person their right to dress like a twit (I mean, I wear black and a stetson...) but the noise... the fucking four-stroke flatulence that these male-menopausal cunts belch from their unsilenced tailpipes is so jarring that I actually become angry when they pass me by. It's not so much a cry for attention as an on-the-floor, legs-kicking, snot-nosed tantrum.

I suppose that one of these people will try to convince me in Harley Marketing Department-approved vernacular that the experience of the phallus-substitute throbbing between one's legs is unutterably sublime, but I say "fuck you", Harley Riders.

I don't recommend enforced noise regulation on the bikes, but rather that the exhaust pipes are required to terminate in front of the rider's face. On the open road I can imagine that the wind reduces some of the "experience" for the fucker on the bike, so I say let them suck not only on their zero-performance racket but also their carbon monoxide. Perhaps the combined deafness and drowsiness will increase the likelihood of their being T-boned by a large truck.