uncle BS wrote:mt beemer - wow - i disagrree with 99% of your anti-harley rant -- you dont have a clue as to what you're saying. 2 mild obvivous pts- 1- bmw riders spend at least as much if not more than hd riders-- and 2- your comment concerning resale value -- is laughable-- you sir -- DONT HAVE A CLUE. I'D say stick to bmw's but i'm aware you're lacking in that department as well....
Hello, Gilbert!
Everyone, meet Gilbert.
Gilbert, meet everyone.
Let me introduce Gilbert. Gilbert is a short, rotund chap with slip-on shoes. He lives in a quiet house, none too tidy, and the yard is shorn rather than mowed since Gilbert spends his time inside. Still, it's in a mostly-quiet street in a mostly-quiet suburb. Gilbert doesn't really have a girlfriend, or a boyfriend. Gilbert has Gilbert, if you know what I mean.
Gilbert has never been tough, not really in the way he dreams on idle evenings. But his colleagues in the insurance office talk tough so he thinks he knows how tough sounds. Gilbert is to shy to disparage aloud, but his boss, Ivan, has an echoing way of putting other men down and Gilbert practices this at home in front of the mirror. Gilbert has noticed that Ivan channels backwood-come-southern-redneck when he really wants to be carelessly tough. Gilbert write these words down, just in case.
Gilbert doesn't actually
ride a motorcycle. Or even own one. His loud, happy brother Ken does - and so does his neighbour Bruce who talks rather too much across the fence. So Gilbert knows the lingo. And since Bruce rides a BMW and hates Harleys, and Ken rides a Harley and hates BMWs, Gilbert knows the trash-talk for both brands.
So, late in the evening - that's 7:30 after the price is right - Gilbert logs into his home PC. Sometimes he practices being Ivan in the bathroom mirror first.
Hunched over his table, softdrink in hand, Gilbert's quietly misplaced hopelessness morphs into his characters. Oh, see him become a wild pig, all stringy hair (well, at least that matches) and greasy tatts. See him lean back, belly-scratching-uncle of the bs kind ... his cola becomes Jim B or Jack ...
... and out into the keyboard he pours his scorn at all those bikers who seem to sail through their lives, happy and ordinary and buying that blue-white roundel bike. It's not always safe, he knows (
oh, that terrible time on Jo Momma when the advriders seemed to see right into his small-city-suburban desperation) but sometimes he manages a fine "you, sir, have no clue" in almost the right voice. He drops a "yall", even a both of yall" - oh, almost too much! Gilbert only dares one or two more, and then it's time for the other joys of the internet.
It's not a lot, but it's a small strike back at those happy chaps with wives and lives ...
