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Something about being a guy cyclist encourages immediate vagina growth. They become super bitches. I’m not talking sane vagina here either, I mean the vagina whereas when you tell her she’s a bad driver she immediately updates her Facebook relationship status with SINGLE and Facebook mood with “Feeling Pissed Off,” throws your graphic Guns and Roses t-shirts out the front door and then deletes your pornhub bookmarks vagina. The real crazy ass kind. Sure, some cyclists are fine, but most are prick assholes that deserve to be chocked out with their own fancy spokes.
You guys are like fucking cockroaches infesting a slumlord ran South LA apartment when I try driving down PCH. I’m just trying to go for a nice drive, enjoy the beach, maybe see fucking flipper do some acrobatic shit, I don’t know? But then I round the corner at Topanga Canyon and there you are, a massive infestation of Under Armour Green Tights. I’ve found warts on my genitals after coming home from Cancun that were less irritating to deal with than you cyclists. This is 100 percent bullshit. I immediately go into anxiety mode, because I now have to still get up PCH without your cyclist chin catching my front right Bridgestone. Of course, you assholes are just cycling it up, giving 0 shits for whether or not you’re in your cycle fuck lanes. Hey, don’t worry, I got this, I’ll just wait until that perfect moment in fantasy land to safely pass you guys. That should work. Oh sweet, you’re dramatically waving your arm like a wounded gazelle for me to pass you and your bad ass pedal gang, so now everything is A-OK! Sorry I was ruining your day.
But hey, some of you are more considerate, like when you take down Wilshire blvd during the Friday afternoon rush, because THAT MAKES ALL THE FUCKING SENSE IN THE WORLD. Are. You. Kidding? I don’t feel safe walking to CVS for Tums after I’ve accidentally drink from a faucet in this town. But hey, you guys just spin your fucking spokes no matter! It’s awesomely appreciated when Wilshire finally clears out yet we all go back down to crawl speed while a soccer mommy wagon negotiates oncoming traffic versus your left elbow. We wouldn’t want to inconvenience any of you to not cycle it up side by side by side, whereas one of you assholes is in the lane that was supposedly meant for cars. At least that’s how I’ve understood it since 1893.
Many sports or activities require equipment. I get it. If you play football you wear a helmet. Why? Because not wearing a helmet means starting to think your dog’s bark is actually its way of calling you fat when you wear certain jeans and eventually hanging yourself from a chandelier. If you are fat, that’s fine, do your thing. But don’t wear fucking tights. Come on man!
Is that a stop light? Oh it is, OK, lets heavy foot these bad ass pedals of mine and actually shit out the final shit I was giving for other human beings while I’m at it and blow this fucker. No diaper required, I’ll just leave that last give a shit I had right there in the intersection for some Acura’s tire to poop scoop up.
What the fuck do you need skinny ass spandex for? Are you cutting wind? Maybe you should razor off your ass hair also and really shave off some some seconds on the time that takes you to get from the Starbucks in the Palisades to the Starbucks in Santa Monica where you can walk in with your metal bottomed shoes clanking around drinking pumpkin spiced lattes.
I now take pictures of these assholes when I am forced to pass them and then go around to every fake sponsor store they have embroidered on their 80’s spandex and urinate at the register. I am currently banned from Dick’s Sporting Goods.
