This is the fourth time within the span of a year you have felt the need to fuck shit up.
Please cease and desist.
Last winter, you felt the need to remove my bike entirely. It was a shitty bike. You could not see the blue for all the rust. It was at least ten years old, but looked significantly older, and not in a cool vintage way. The gears didn’t work. The breaks didn’t work. The seat was most uncomfortable. It was the Courtney Love of bikes. The lock you broke to steal my bike was worth more than my bike. It did, however, have a an exquisite hippo bell.
Come spring I splurged and bought myself a new bike. It is by no means a “good bike”. It rolls, stops, changes gears and looks real pretty, but is vapid and fatuous. Riding it is like riding an elephant: Super-cool looking, but more work than other options.
By May, dear Asshat, you found the time to appropriate my rear light into your pocket. What you will do with that light I do not know. It doesn’t clip anywhere but the holder on my bike. Perhaps someone stole your light, and you are out for revenge? Perhaps you just like to hold it close and watch its pulsing red beams. Does it sooth you into sleep? Does it remind you of the flash of the police car lights that have no doubt picked you up in the past? I hope it does. I hope the warm red glow brings you saccharine dreams of honeysuckles and dulcimers.
Last week, I left my poor bike unused, locked on the street. I felt bad, but I could not ride due to a meeting my knee had with the pavement last Saturday. Every morning I’d walk by, giving my bike a reassuring pat on the seat, or straighten him up when he fell a little lopsided. But one evening on my way home, Asshat, my friend, you had left your mark. This time it looks as though you did a terrible parking job, swiping my bike and dragging it with your car. Alas! My Kyptonite lock! What will give first? Your car? My bike? The pole? My lock? I will never know, but I do know this: I parked facing north, with my chain in tact and my bike unscathed. Unfortunately upon my return from work, my bike was facing south, chain dangled limply on the sidewalk like the arm of a dead baby, and the entire right side of my bike scratched to shreds, similar to what I imagine Brad Pitt’s back to look like after a rough and ready tumble with Angie. Except, unlike Brad (or maybe exactly like Brad), my bike is less sexy now. Thanks Asshat. Nobody likes a prom queen with scars.
And now, when I think I’m in the clear, you strike again, Asshat. This morning I leave my apartment, and there my bike sits: Raped, naked, ashamed. You have gone too far this time. You have despoiled my bike by removing its seat. Its beautiful, cushy, saddle. The saddle that would bounce me like a kitten when I rolled over potholes and speed bumps. The Lazyboy of saddles. That saddle made my ass feel like the Princess when the jackass Prince finally removed the pea. That saddle, oh that saddle! Why did you take my saddle? Was it for your girlfriend? It has embroidered flowers on it, so I’d think it was a little too feminine for your macho charms. She’ll like it. It’s a great seat. Maybe she’ll finally ask you to move in with her, and out of your mommy’s basement. Now you can lay on your girlfriend’s couch all day playing Grand Theft Auto, wiping your orange stained cheesey fingers on her carpet, spilling Labatt 50 down your greasy undershirt. Days go by, you on the couch, your too-good-for-you girlfriend riding her shitty bike, with brand new cushy seat, to work so she can pay your bills. Until one day, you let her dog eat the chocolate McCain cake you pulled out of the freezer. The poor dog won’t stop barfing, and you’re too drunk to care. You just throw tea towels and t-shirts over the rancid vomit, and call your girlfriend. She speeds home, ass exceptionally comfortable despite her anxious mood, and finds you on the couch, beer in hand, piles of vomit surrounding her cherished dog, and a half eaten McCain cake that clearly has never seen a fork or knife. She screams at you, throws the cake at your head, picks up her dog and takes the shivering, shaking pile of fur to the vet. You “man the fort”. She returns home without the dog, and finally, months too late, throws you and all your shit out in a fit of rage, tears streaming down her ashen cheeks.
So, you know what Asshat? I’m glad you stole my bike seat. Your girlfriend deserves it.
But in the future, stay the fuck away from my bike.