Bikers. Can’t fucking stand them. A few bikers walk into the bar, and I generally walk out, especially if they sit their fat asses anywhere near me.
It’s the same way every time. They’ll walk in all quiet and humble, looking like “Hey, man, we just want to have a few beers. We don’t want no trouble.” And fifteen fucking minutes later, they’re stirring up trouble. Their specialty is occupying any given section of the bar, then acting as if they own it. They like corners by the pool tables, but if they get a chance, they’ll take over a patio instead. And, yes, they will literally tell people that it’s their patio and tell them to leave.
But I confess a dark fascination with the brood, amazed at how anybody could be so damned stupid and still retain the heroic allure of an iconoclast.
How, I ask you, how can so many people dress the same, act the same, and think the same…and still call everybody else “sheeple?”
Wonders never end.
Biker girls really turn me on. I think “Wow, that white trash and proud of it attitude is really hot.” Until I have to interact with them in any way, shape, or form, and then they make my skin crawl. Biker bitches are even dumber than the dudes. And meaner.
Biker bitches will threaten you. They get off on it. Never directly, always in the passive tense. Italian mobster chicks are the same way. They’ll start talking about some guy who got his ass kicked…it’s not you, but it sure sounds an awful lot like you.
Not all bikers are bad, I have to remind myself. There are a few exceptions, of course, as there are with everything.
I remember “Mars” from my days spent bartending at the Screwball Inn–smart guy, funny, weird, but mostly good. And “Wrench,” the big skinny guy with two teardrops tattooed on his face…surprisingly good natured…self deprecating…always cracking a dry joke. His wife was a rich kid from Florida, and their little boy looked like an angelic cherub, something out of parochial school, always scrubbed clean and polite.
But there are so many other bikers I’ve met in my life who just…seemed to make a point of making me miserable. No idea why. Too blond, I guess. Too educated. Too liberal. Too something.
Back in Roswell, one group tracked me down from one bar to another, and their muscle man grabbed me by the back of the neck…I can’t remember why. I think I dared to argue with their leader at another bar about GW Bush. This was around the time when Bush, Cheney, and Rumsfeld were all blatantly lying about WMDs in Iraq. Basically provable lies, since no WMDs were ever found and every intelligence agency on earth disagreed with Rumsfeld’s assessment.
Then, in Denver, a “1%” biker gang drew a bead on me and had their fun. One of their bros bellied up to the bar and smirked and said something like “Every fucking liberal sitting at this bar is a traitor to the United States.” Well, like an idiot, I couldn’t let that slide and challenged him on it. This was during the second year of Obama’s first term, when all of the “I’m not a racist” racists were still screaming about his birth certificate.
They figured out where I lived. I had to move out of my apartment. I was pretty rattled. To them, it was a game. I wasn’t afraid they’d kill me, but I was afraid of getting stomped. It was my shit luck that year to move into a neighborhood where they were trying to establish a club and take over the corner bar. Again, all I did was argued with some shithead about politics, and I paid a heavy price.
Bikers are weird that way. According to their mythos, they can basically say and do whatever the hell they want. But you better watch what you say. And you better watch what you do. Because when a biker can’t win the argument, he’s determined to win the fight. And they can fight. That’s one thing they do well. Especially when it’s four or five to one. Then it’s a fight and a bonding experience.
Ah, live and learn.
I know that if, for some reason, there were ever a big barroom soaked in gasoline and a hundred 1% bikers trapped inside…and I had a match…I’m not sure I could resist a certain diabolical urge, if you know what I mean.
So now it’s the middle of August, and all the biker assholes are in Sturgis again, doing what they do best: acting like a bunch of chuckleheads, quite amused by their own idiocy.
Considering their lifestyle, you’d think that bikers would be as liberal as hell, politically. But it’s just the opposite. They’re so conservative that they usually blast past being reactionary and dive head first into what can only be described as populist fascism.
The funny thing, to me, the really funny thing is that bikers hate cops, and cops hate bikers.
Which is hilarious and truly ironic since when it comes to politics, the bikers and the cops are basically the same.
Let’s call it the circle of life.