Wow. I am impressed. The rippling muscles, the sweat, the spandex. You can wear that kind of thing. You make that helmet look good. You’re a picture of health. But if you don’t move that fucking bicycle off the road, I will run you over.
This is a highway. It is not a bike trail. It is not the YMCA. It’s a fucking highway. It’s rush hour. Go find a fucking park. Or a stationary bike. I will not change lanes. I will not scoot over. It’s hard enough to hit you with a cigarette butt as it is. It’s damned near impossible from the left hand lane. Get off the road. Dick.
I suppose you’re to be commended. Perhaps I’m just jealous. You risk life and limb in your quest for fitness. You put your life on the line for steely glutes. That carbon fiber frame and matched spandex outfit cost more than I make in a month. You are dedicated. You are committed. You are a fucking maniac.
But this is a Land Rover. Pound for pound, the heaviest vehicle in its class. It has a V8, four wheel drive, a six CD changer, and jump seats in the back. As you weigh the risks involved in your quest for abs of steel, consider that 6 of my closest friends and I could chase you across the toughest terrain, sing along with Southern Culture on the Skids, and run you over. Repeatedly.
I’m just saying.
Find another highway, asshole.