A Letter To The Guy That Rides His Motorcycle Down My Street At 3 A.M.

Dear, Guy That Rides His Motorcycle Down My Street At 3 A.M.

I can only assume that your crotch rocket is a source of great pride for you, and you feel the only way to make the world fully aware of your pride for a bicycle that can go fast is riding it down residential streets at hours of the day when even the crickets are sleeping. When the sun is shining and everyone is living out their busy lives, your cacophony of motorized whining gets drowned out. But at night, when calm has fallen across the landscape, you, good sir, choose to tear ass though our pleasant dreams and peaceful LSD trips with a sound that we hope is followed by gun fire and the score from an action movie, because being chased by a gang of thugs that want you dead for killing their boss would be the only logical justification for why you’re such a night owl asshole.

At first, I thought it was just random chance; that two people with motorcycles just so happened to follow the same street to their separate destinations on separate nights. But the frequency and punctuality with which you rode down my street made this hard to believe. Then I started to think that you probably worked the graveyard shift at the local Denny’s. But then I realized that working the graveyard shift wouldn’t allow you to wake up early enough to strategically take off your shirt at the beach in front of college girls as to work on your deep-maroon tan and show off your sweet new tattoo of a coy fish fighting a dragon wrapped in barbed wire surrounded by tribal designs. That’s what tanning salons and mega-malls were created for. So, for a while, you were a mystery to me. But then, after your 18th or 19th obnoxious pass, it hit me: you suck.

It’s just a simple fact of life. You are the person the phrase “you suck” was created for. It’s as if there is some kind of genetic-level arrangement of DNA coding that you and your ilk posses that makes you sit bolt upright in bed in the wee small hours of the morning and say, “I gotta f*ck up sleepy time for everyone, bro!” If one wanted to be logical about it (truly logical, not like before) and try to find a reason for your actions that made sense, then one could argue that you are merely trying to take advantage of the wide open empty roads. If this is true, then there is no greater argument for your suckiness. Your complete lack of understanding for how your actions affect those around you makes you a prime example of Heisenberg’s “Some people are just c*cksuckers, man” principle. No amount of therapy or interventions will ever change the fact that you, on a deeply rooted genetic level, are a piece of shit.

Love,

Holy Taco

P.S. – You make me want to install a turret on my front porch and fire rockets and .50 cal shells at you when you ride by so I can kill you with them. I want to make you dead with rockets and comically large bullets. This is a real thought that passes through my mind every night.