Fuck Those Fucking Fucks

Sometimes I feel sorry for them, I really do: trapped in their metal cages, stacked up in endless lines of the similarly imprisoned, getting fatter and stupider with each passing mile; that’s when my heart goes out at the mindless conformity and desperate lack of imagination that brainwashes people to believe that their only option for getting around is to climb behind the wheel of some overpriced, inefficient, and fundamentally ugly contraption and be carried around like the proverbial Spam in a can with nothing else to do other than eat, talk on cell phones, and pick their noses until they arrive, fatter and stupider, at their destinations.

But other days, like today (maybe it’s because I didn’t get my usual Thursday night bike gang ride, perhaps it’s due to that extra shot of Blanton’s I had before retiring, or it could just be the phase of the moon), my gorge rises, and I feel mainly contempt for and disgust at drivers and their gas-guzzling planet-destroying vehicles.

I’m appalled at the selfishness and laziness of anyone who thinks that their own little need to get somewhere just a tiny bit faster or drier warrants completely disregarding the effect their actions are having on my planet and the world I hope to leave to my daughter and future generations.

I look at those smug fuckers in their fancy status symbols showing off like monkeys baring their teeth at rivals, or those fat-assed morons in extra large boxes whose irrational fears compel them to ceaselessly rationalize the essential immorality of their actions in the name of convenience and perceived comfort, and I’m enraged, calmed mainly by the satisfaction of turning my pedals and self-propelling myself onwards.

Am I an asshole for being so judgmental of my fellow citizens? Okay, sure, but then so were abolitionists and freedom fighters; right is right as history—if we can get those fuckers to stop driving and the human race survives—will show.