What? Have you never seen a full-grown man on a kid’s bike riding past a strip mall? Well, listen up. Because this purple Mongoose with 16-inch wheels does a lot of things that car can’t. For one, you can’t rev your handlebars like this and pretend you’re on a motorcycle. That would be stupid. Getting hit by a train is a lot more likely in your half-ton of steel than on my nimble stallion. Bet you didn’t think about that. When you’re waiting at a stoplight, does the wind blow through your hair like this, making you look super rad? No. Because you’re encased in glass, like those goddamn refillable razor cartridges at the drugstore that I can’t steal anymore.
Still on your high horse? Well you might want to get the f*ck off, because believe it or not “The Goose” is a bicycle built for two. Like, whenever I pick up Amber or one of those other girls on the corner, they just lock their pumps over the back foot pegs and hold onto the hood of my jean jacket. It’s a majestic sight, like George Washington crossing the f*cking Potomac. That’s right, I know sh*t. Mainly how not to look like a dick weed in a $35,000 kraut-mobile with only five gears. Try $37 for 18.
Last I heard, America was free. But I guess you still choose to constrain yourself with doors, a windshield and a roof. They might protect you from the elements, like the snow that’s falling on my mustache right now, but they don’t protect you from me calling you a pussy.
What’s in my backpack? Just a travel iron, a spoon, and a 40 of Busch Light. But don’t worry about that. If I were you, I’d worry about finding a parking space at the mall today. Me – no problem. See that pole? That’s a parking space. That fence? Parking space. That cinder block wall – parking space. The bushes, the grass by the dumpster all free parking if I wanted it. But I don’t. Because I’m going to the condos behind Safeway to pick up a package. Yeah, their sign says, “Parking reserved for tenants only.” But you know what? F*ck that. I park my bike ON that sign.
See, I don’t play by the rules. You’d understand if you heard the Kid Rock blasting on my Discman right now. Don’t think I didn’t see you in there mouthing the words to Hootie and the Blowfish. Because I did.
It’s confirmed: you’re a douchebag. Which means you’re probably going to Crate & Barrel, over on Summit Ave. That’d take you ten minutes. Me, I’d just hop this curb, turn down the alley past Dress Barn, haul it behind Talbots and Yankee Candle, coast across the lumberyard tracks, shoot by The Cheesecake Factory and do a motherf*cking wheelie while I wait for you in front of Crap & Barrel. You can’t MapQuest that sh*t.
Who’s the loser now? Don’t answer. I already know by the way you rolled up your windows that I’ve planted the seeds of doubt. You’re probably wondering where you can get yourself a super rad bike like this without winning one in a dog fight like I did. Well, I’m not here to make things easier for you. Did Obi-Wan give Luke all the answers? No. I have to let you discover the freedom of pedaling a feather weight bicycle built for a 10-year-old on your own. And when you do, we can ride together like twin eagles over the cloudless skies of Mt. Rushmore.
Until then, it’s wheelie time.