Admit to it, you damned cyclotics. Say with me, "I've been an addict for four years now..."
Acknowledge the fakeyness of our fake self-righteousness. Note the concupiscence of our earnest proclamations of hope. Acknowledge the suck of our our sucky little blogs:
Touching myself in RCP, and telling you all about it!;
Guess who's awesome? I'll tell you in 50 Faulknerian sentences!;
I eat shit like you for breakfast;
I am abso-Irish-fucking-lutely fucko-furious and helpless to do anything about it.
Fat, funny;
Fatter, funnier;
Fattest, funniest.
We're a bunch of dull, fat, self-centered, swollen post-artery-nicked cantaloupe sized Ruggballs.
Still, one could do worse. Bad Girls Club, for instance:
In this scene, Tanisha and Jennivicia have a throwdown instigated by Tanisha's insistence that Jennivicia return her "juice," and Jennivicia's perturbation concerning the manner in which Tanisha requests the juice in question. Hair is grabbed, a knot appears on Tanisha's forehead, and Jennivicia declares her superiority.
I imagine that for Tanisha, and for any of the girls in this venerable club, riding a bike eight hours a day would be the apotheosis of torture and boredom. Yet, that's where you and I find our drama.
Who's weirder?
The point, if there is one, is that we--and here, I mean we cyclists--are total losers who live pointless lives, but if you compare our values with those of society as a whole (e.g., Bad Girls Club) we are the Allen Blooms and William Bennets (pre-gambling scandal) of our time.
