When Saturday comes round there always seems to be a surplus of faux Hell’s Angels – fully clad in leather jackets, potty helmets and chaps.
They cruise the highways in large groups, snarling at little children and giving the finger to old people. They'll tell you their name is Sammy Sawtooth or Ted the Decapitator. They'll get boozy and pinch waitress's bums.
These men (and their obligatory ‘old ladies’) are examples of the rather sad Weekend Warrior.
CHAPS IN CHAPS!
The guys on Harley hogs and Japanese superbikes are merely moonlighting.
From Monday to Friday they are mild mannered accountants and lawyers – but when the working week is over the banker becomes the bad-ass, and the dentist becomes the demon.
You can almost see them on a Saturday morning bringing the wife tea and a rusk in bed, and then sneaking off to the hidden room behind the decoupage workbench in the garage.
This room is their Batcave – containing a fake beard, leather-jacket-with-sleeveless-denim-jacket-on-top, and the complete Steven Seagal collection on Blu-Ray. They suit up solemnly and hit the streets… no doubt with a ZZ Top tune playing in their head.
SAD-O OR SUPERHERO?
We all know that Clark Kent’s milksop was the hardcore Superman. And playboy fop Bruce Wayne was really a cover for his nightly pursuits as Batman. So the only imaginable motivation for these sad-o’s would be a deeply buried desire to be a man of mystery.
That explains the denim over leather – didn’t the man of Steel and Dark Knight wear their undies on top of their trousers? And the fake beard would hide their visage in case they came across Betty from the marketing department.
I’m sure some of their colleagues from work join them on their weekend rampage, but these activities are kept hidden from the boringly average ‘citizens’.
The first rule of Superhero Bike Club is: you don’t talk about Superhero Bike Club.
YOU CAN DO IT TOO!
If you can’t afford a Harley, don’t be discouraged. We can all indulge in childhood fantasies.
I once met a guy who donned a top hat and tails and performed magic tricks in his spare time. A friend of mine knew a guy who dressed up in a ninja suit at night and climbed buildings. True fact.
The women of the Beaufort West Scrabble Society dropped their doilies when I thumped their champion with ‘xylophone’ on a Triple Word Score to win – little did they know that I was mentored by the most cutthroat and diabolical Scrabble player of the 20th Century: my mum.
We all hide secret lives – be they ninja surmounter, Scrabble hustler or hog rider – and these lives are the red cape beneath our dinner jacket... so please don't laugh.
Showing posts with label bad driving. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bad driving. Show all posts
Phallic Symbols for Dicks like Thimbles
Is there a better way to advertise your small penis than with the purchase of a 4X4?
When I was a kid there was no such thing as a luxury SUV. A Land Rover was an average car on the inside, just big and powerful enough to climb over rocks and Third World natives. Politicians drove Mercs, and only gung-ho game rangers and Indiana Jones wannabes tooled around in such metal monstrosities.
But nowadays it’s necessary for every little big man to own one; as though he expects it to drive out when he opens the zipper on his trousers.
It’s all there on Top Gear – the self-conscious small-man-syndrome sufferer; the grumpy, pube-haired geriatric; and the guy stuck in a mid-life crisis with the long, varsity student locks. Prime examples of the ‘my car is a penis’ candidate.
I suppose it’s not as scary and much less invasive than a penis enlargement, and most men know they’d get arrested for showing off their nob in the company parking lot.
You’d never see Dirk Diggler driving one of them. In fact, I’m sure pornstars are more prone to buying sports cars; secure in the scale of their naughty bits.
And these guys handle their large, unwieldy cars about as well as they’d handle a gigantic portion of man-mutton – uncontrollably straddling lanes, unable to fit it in a parking space, and ramming it up your arse on the road.
While they’re struggling to control their oversized substitute for a phallus, they don’t realise their purple-headed pygmy is actually controlling them.
The truly insecure will even force an overabundance of automobile on their wife. Even more heartbreaking than watching a woman struggle to parallel park one of these giants is the knowledge that she’s suffering for her husband’s Lilliputian love-muscle.
Man’s selfish insecurity is responsible for most of this world’s ills – war, colonisation, unprotected sex – and now, as he carelessly pollutes with his unnecessary gas-guzzler, Man can add the destruction of the environment to that list.
If only the humble, fuel-efficient, compact car could be advertised as the well-hung man’s preferred mode of transport. Maybe then marketers could do something useful for a change and save the world.
When I was a kid there was no such thing as a luxury SUV. A Land Rover was an average car on the inside, just big and powerful enough to climb over rocks and Third World natives. Politicians drove Mercs, and only gung-ho game rangers and Indiana Jones wannabes tooled around in such metal monstrosities.
But nowadays it’s necessary for every little big man to own one; as though he expects it to drive out when he opens the zipper on his trousers.
It’s all there on Top Gear – the self-conscious small-man-syndrome sufferer; the grumpy, pube-haired geriatric; and the guy stuck in a mid-life crisis with the long, varsity student locks. Prime examples of the ‘my car is a penis’ candidate.
I suppose it’s not as scary and much less invasive than a penis enlargement, and most men know they’d get arrested for showing off their nob in the company parking lot.
You’d never see Dirk Diggler driving one of them. In fact, I’m sure pornstars are more prone to buying sports cars; secure in the scale of their naughty bits.
And these guys handle their large, unwieldy cars about as well as they’d handle a gigantic portion of man-mutton – uncontrollably straddling lanes, unable to fit it in a parking space, and ramming it up your arse on the road.
While they’re struggling to control their oversized substitute for a phallus, they don’t realise their purple-headed pygmy is actually controlling them.
The truly insecure will even force an overabundance of automobile on their wife. Even more heartbreaking than watching a woman struggle to parallel park one of these giants is the knowledge that she’s suffering for her husband’s Lilliputian love-muscle.
Man’s selfish insecurity is responsible for most of this world’s ills – war, colonisation, unprotected sex – and now, as he carelessly pollutes with his unnecessary gas-guzzler, Man can add the destruction of the environment to that list.
If only the humble, fuel-efficient, compact car could be advertised as the well-hung man’s preferred mode of transport. Maybe then marketers could do something useful for a change and save the world.
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