If society didn’t employ things like “laws” and “prison sentences,” I wouldn’t have to resist the urge to run out into the street and push over those dirty shits who zoom around on their certifiably moronic tall bikes. I’d set it up like a video game: 500 points for a straight push, 1,000 for a lead pipe thrown between the spokes, 1,500 for a well-placed spike strip, and a 1-UP for shooting the rider in the face with a potato gun.

I do not drive, but if I did I would be so incredibly annoyed by these people. And if I came upon a deserted road with a pack of tall-bikers slogging their way toward me, I would not hesitate to gently nudge them with my car just to disprove their claims that, because of increased visibility, riding a tall bike is safer than a regular one. That’s like saying you’re more likely to meet new friends if you pass out $10 at the bus stop. Surely you will, but you’re going to attract scumbags who will probably rob you for the rest of your cash, not soulmates. And in both instances you come off looking like a stupid, attention-hungry fuckstick.

Bike “clubs” like Rat Patrol and SCUL are essentially semi-organized mobs of (from my personal experience) perverse and aggressive individuals who typically adhere to broad and ill-defined ideologies that usually amount to “fuck the system,” “don’t pay for things,” “cars are bad,” and “anarchy’s cool.” In reality, most of these people have the maturity level of a rebellious 14-year-old whose job experience consists of the pizza-delivery industry and fixing people’s bikes for spare change. They are just an amoeba’s dick above crust-punks on my People Who Should Hold Their Breath Forever scale.  

In theory I have nothing against people who want to sit in their garage or basement and weld together bike parts so they can roll around town seven feet above everyone else like some sort of human effigy who’s just waiting to get torched. That’s your business. In practice, however, it is so annoying that it makes me want to walk around with a blowtorch so I can slice through the tubes of every tall bike I see leaning up against a fence or a stoop. I would cut it with a precise delicacy so that the rider couldn’t see the fissure at first glance. And then they would mount their retarded, mutant steed, cruise a few feet, and crack their mongoloid heads on the hard pavement while a pair of tires runs over the rest. I would be hiding around the corner and run out when it all went down to scream: “HOW’S IT FEEL TO BE DIFFERENT NOW, LOSER? HOPE YOU ENJOY HAVING BRAIN DAMAGE.” It would be delightful.

EGGERT MALSTEIN