Jake Rides

Strolling the fabled streets of Fort Worth's tourist-geared Historic Stockyards I was made graphically aware of what a fashion accessory motorcycles have become for the uppwardly mobile and penile disadvantaged.

I've long ago written off my unmasked hostility to the costumed and coiffed psuedo-bikers as simply being the manifestations of my own hate and discontent sewn and grown by the grace of God via my associations with people who do not suck. (Run-on sentences RULE!) Others may claim jealousy and fractured id, but those people are oedipal asshats clouding obvious reality with imagined underlying forces.

But back to why everyone sucks but us: there I was, sans motorsickle, on a beautiful 85 degree severe clear kind of day. Cold Shiner in one hand and a wide-eyed 1st grader at the other. Yes, the literal model of domesticity gone horribly awry. I even had a camera in my pocket and plans to buy the boy a balloon hat from the clown on the corner. All was well, and I was doing a very good job supressing the urge to bitch about my lack of two-wheeled conveyance. I had nothing, really, to bitch about. I'd flown to Ft. Worthless in a high performance aerobatic aircraft, and would be headed back in the relative comfort and status stigma of a minivan. But as those who ride know; if it's not raining like a bastard with occasional piston sized hail we'd rather have the motorsickle. Sometimes even if it is. I did not. Both kids, the wife, and the assorted baby support gear won't fit - even if I had a sidecar. Damnit.

Somewhere between Riscky's BBQ and the Cattlepen maze we heard him coming: the badass. That irritating sound we've all grown to know - and some to hate. Straight pipes lacking any sort of proper back pressure attached to a high-compression engine wed to a Baker six speed, and mounted in a frame of questionable lineage. The Chopper BadAss rode our way.

As I turned to catch the formulaic profile of the late-in-life assbag aboard a horribly overpriced 'chopper' parading his fat ass down the brick streets my 1st grade protege, unprompted, turned to me and said, "I wonder where the no-riding punk parked his trailer."

YES! He is my kid! Cancel the paternity test.

Much like when he knows the next line on The Simpsons our maternal unit fails to be impressed with these moments of pure clarity from Young Jacob. She is female, however, and we know their sense of humor tends to be deficient.

Watching this punk idle through the stockyards a few things came to mind. Some pointers you boomers on cookie-cutter psuedo choppers should keep in mind:

• When pretending to be a hoodlum leave the dockers at home.
• Ditto on the loafers, dipshit.
• Neither go with the chaps, especially when it's 90 degrees.
• We know you're hiding Rogaine's progress with the do-rag.
• Ratling windows with shitty exhaust is no substitute for actually riding.
• Real bikers are not scared of u-turns.
• We're laughing AT you, not 'with' you.

I think there's some confusion with the last one. When you step off the sparkling clean IronHorse in front of Gunner's on Thursday of Sturgis when it's been rainng for the past two days we're not admiring you're housekeeping skills. We're laughing at the costume.

When those stickers show up on trailers with the help number 1-800-NO-COJONES it's not a bonding experience or invitation to haul with us. We're laughing at your lack of balls.

And when you hear from the back of the bar, "Choppers 'til Prom!" and "Choppers 'til It Ain't Cool Anymore!" we're not forming alliances. We're laughing at your wardrobe.

When the graffiti on the pisser wall says 'Fuck The Toweds,' 'U-Haul U-Suck,' and 'Trailered Harleys Suck' this is not friendly chiding and hazing. We're endorsing a thinning of the herd through wholesale slaughter of the costumed and cowardly. Oh, and we're laughing at you.

I'm not really all that old but I actually remember when choppers were bikes that had been chopped and tv shows had white people in them. Damn ... I'm turning into one of those guys.

Global warming is disappointing me. Sparks Halloween gig may be a bag-shriveling hypothermic mess. But we're going anyway.

And The Lizard is coming home to visit next week. Bet that wrecks my liver ...