Hey there, Chief! Say, could you tell me why you’re sitting on my bike? Just hanging out, huh? You look a little unsteady up there, I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind getting off. Oh, you’d like to know why I’d prefer it if you got off?
Because if you fall over you will fucking break something, fuckstick!!
Oh, you ride yourself, do ya? That makes it OK. We’re, like, BROTHERS, yeah? Oh, you’ve got an Indian, eh? That’s a nice bike. Yep, I’d love to see it some time. You know why that won’t happen?
Because you’re full of shit, drunky! You DO NOT have your own bike, because if you did, you’d know better than to stumble over to someone else’s and climb onto it, assface!!
Oh, and here’s a tip: assuming you can bullshit enough about bikes to convince me that you have actually ridden one once or twice in your life, do you know why I happened to not believe you instantly?
Because you chose to tell me you’ve got a fucking INDIAN, jerk-off!!
Are we all set here? Good, because if I walk back outside and you’re still balancing on it, I’m going to pick up that ashtray can and beat you to death with it.
What’s so strange about that? You do know that the company resurrected in 99, don’t you? You can by new Indians now.
Anyway, I never understood why people think it’s OK to sit on someones parked motorcycle. Fuckheads. I wonder if they’d mind if someone sat in their car. “Oh, don’t mind me, I also have a car, so it’s OK. Yessireebob, love me them automobiles. Nice porsche by the way… Yep, I’m definately a car driver.”
What’s strange about that is that he was obviously trying to impress me by saying he had a vintage ~$20,000 bike. It would be like me saying “Nice ski boat! I’ve got a 1955 Chris-Craft 20-foot bullnose Continental myself.” I know Indian has new bikes now, but he clearly did not. Plus, not to put down my regular bar, but guys with ~$20,000 Indians do not hang out in my neighborhood at my neighborhood dive bar.
Had he not been so clearly silly-happy intoxicated it would have gotten ugly.
This should have been HIS thread, titled something like, “Hey, Dickhead, You Didn’t Have To Punch My Lights Out Just Because I Sat My Drunken Ass On Your Property.”
