Bicycle Parts

I was at the store the other day looking at bicycle parts. Have you seen the price of seats? I remember when you would break a seat and spend a year without one, standing up while riding. Eventually you would be at a relative’s house or at the dump, spot an old cycle lying in a pile of something and low and behold there would be your new seat. You or no one you knew was going out and buying one. Parents would have merely looked at you quizzically and said, “you must a bumped yo head.”
Now the average seat costs about twenty buck, but can go as high as fifty. You can have one custom made that costs hundreds. They take an imprint of your rear and make a seat that conforms to it. What the world needs is an imprint of my rear, how did we ever get by without one? I don’t want to see it and neither does anyone else. Only an idiot or average government worker would pay two hundred bucks for a bicycle or toilet seat, parents of our generation weren’t about to.
Before I cross this line, I’m about to cross and believe me I’ve crossed a few, let me say that I also had long hair at this time. I remember many times when me and a few other red blooded American males would be out cruising. Up ahead in the distance we would spot exactly what we were out cruising around to spot. The long hair was the first indication, the shapely fitted jeans another. We would all talk a little trash as we approached, we were harmless and never yelled at the pretty girls we passed, but our eyeballs were screaming. As we slowly eased by we would come to realize it was another boy. It made your skin crawl, gave you the Willies, as it was called in our day, gave you good reasons to pick and punch on each other and then call each other fag or something equally as bad.
It was a hard thing to come to terms with, when later in life one of those same red blooded American boys turned out to be Gay. I still loved him like a brother and never treated him differently. I still took up for him in any fight he needed me in, something I’d always done. I was never worried in his company; we were best friends and would be still if he were alive. After he died and he died young, I felt sorry for all the times we joked about stuff like that, it must have been tough on him.
Now let’s get to that line, I’ve approached it, it’s time to get on over it. There is nothing more beautiful, on a woman, than those bicycle shorts, can they make them anymore revealing? On the same hand there is nothing more revolting that passing a particularly fine example of a pair and finding out they are painted on the rear of a guy. I’m not wearing any of em, it would look like ten pounds of s@%!t in a five pound bag as my grandpaw would have said. What he also said, as he saw the southern end of a northern bound woman passing by, “that looks like two cats fighting in a croaker sack.” What is probably said about me, that looks like four armadillos fighting in a pair of bicycle shorts. Ugghhhhh, who wants to see that?
So ladies if you think no one notices that paint you’ve got on while you’re out riding, well you must a bumped yo head. Men buy some big boy shorts, those little things are made to make you go faster and Atlanta highway is not an Olympic venue.

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