10 April 2002
I wish that I had a Harley. I wish that I was of a low enough intelligence to appreciate a big, loud, noisy, obnoxious, pile of fuck with two wheels that made more noise than a DC-10 and carried fewer people than a Yugo.
Hey, call me kooky, but I've never desired a Harley. A Harley-Davidson motorcycle, that piece of shit company in the early '80s that was on the verge of bankruptcy (and rightly so) until jerkoffs like Malcolm Forbes bought two-wheeled piles of fuck and began riding them around the 48 contiguous states, thereby ushering in the "Fuckhead Biker Revolution."
I, personally, don't see the allure in an obnoxious, loud monstrosity that costs more to maintain than a cruise ship. I have never seen the attraction on many levels. For one, I've never seen the upside in two-wheeled piles of fuck. Call me kooky, but if I'm going to go "hoggin'," well... no, I ain't. I want at least a microscopic layer of sheet metal between me and whatever fuckin' shitbrick I might meet on the road, just in case he decides to test Einstein's theory that two object can't occupy the same space at the same time. I can, however, appreciate the feeling of the wind in your hair. That's why I own a FUCKING CONVERTIBLE. Four wheels, four brakes, and the attraction that if I see something up ahead, I don't have to roll the fucking dice to guess whether I'm gonna be able to stop in time and survive.
Even if I wanted an oil-dropping, exhaust-blaring pile of shit, I don't know that I'd actually pay what you fuckin' dumbshits pay for Harleys. I mean, seriously, you could own a motherhumpin' LEXUS for what you just paid for a cunt fuckin' Harley! I mean, what the fuck? When you go in to the finance department to buy a Harley, they should just knee you in the balls, take your money, and throw you on a one-way cruise to Zimbabwe, because if you have the means to buy a Fuckingharley, and you want a Fuckingharley over, say... any other vehicle on the planet... then you don't deserve to live. Have fun with the zebras.
And even if I had enough brain cells removed (by an alien life form, no doubt) to desire such a waste of fuckin' metal, I don't know that I would ever ride it, because in doing so, I would be inundated into the Jerkoff Harley Owners' Club. You know, the assholes who rev their engines as loud as they can, ride down the road, and pretend that there are women with more than three of their original teeth that actually find that shit attractive. I was at a bar tonight where five MFHRs (Moron Fuckin' Harley Riders) decided to "cruise" the area looking for women, I'd guess, and the type of women who had, until recently, been starring in a women's prison movie. None went running into the street, but then again, they weren't on a street that would generate such white-trash traffic. Didn't occur to them to take their retard motor-pony show to a part of town where the average person had more fingers on their hands than teeth in their mouth, but I guess when you buy a Harley, they remove most of your brain. They just get a fucking weed-whacker, unlock your skull, and go for your medulla oblongata. After said procedure, the brain is sent in to Harley-Davidson International (motto: "If it don't rumble and drop oil, it ain't a Harley)", and if you pass. they send you the keys to your very own oil-burner. But only after the ascertain your parentage. If you can't prove that your mother and father were related, well, no Harley for you.
And all you hear from asshole motorcycle owners is how much us car-owning people are assholes, cutting them off, blah blah blah. Meanwhile, 99.99% of motorcycle riders are riding in and out between cars at 20 MPH over the speed limit on the freeway, 7 feet behind the guy in front of them at all times. Or, you '60s throwbacks (ie. Harley retards) that haven't showered for a week that are driving ten-wide down a three-lane road with some cum-guzzling, sperm-burping gutter-slut hanging off your fat ass, and neither of you has so much as a jockstrap for protection. Fuck you. How about this, you white-trash pile of fuck, go buy a helmet. That way, when you're rumbling down the freeway at 80 and someone doesn't see your chrome-laden pile of shit behind them and cuts you off, you might survive. And while you're at it, get a headgear job (helmet) for your white-trash bimbo who's hanging off the back of your big, flabby ass. Unless you get off on necrophilia. Then, sky's the limit, you pigfucker.
In short, fuck Harley owners. Wanna buy a Harley? Do this. Go buy a car (you know, four wheels, a roof, and some windows), take the rest of the money, put it in an envelope, and send it to me. I'll do something more constructive with it. Like get myself a hooker. At least I'll send you a postcard. It may smell like fish, but hey... stop bitching.
