DICKtators

I have a new pet peeve to add to my infinitely growing list: biker boys. You know, the ones suffering the grand delusion of being the next Lance Armstrong, squeezed tight like a little pork sausage in their neon yellow spandex casing. Having experienced being a cyclist and a skater, I feel I am qualified to pontificate on the finer points of cycling etiquette. Look, you grade A arses: I don’t know if you get some kind of sadistic pleasure in sneaking up on some unsuspecting skater/pedestrian at 25 mph, whizzing by, hoping to startle them onto their unprotected derriere or if you’re just so into “the zone” that you can’t be bothered with a quick “on your left” announcement, but don’t be surprised if you get whacked in the back of your pointed little head by a flying skate boot the next time you buzz pass this particular roller girl . You are #2 on my sh*t list, surpassed only by doctors who slam the phone down after dictating, ensuring that I will be deaf by the time I’m 50.