|Jamal is 1 of 33 black|
men that own a Harley in the US.
Of course he's on a Harley. The American standard of cool has been transformed into a mid-life crisis that's a blatant statement of form over function. If riding a German Shepard became the trend this man would abide without question.
The rebel is no more, Tattoos are no longer taboo and the quest for acceptance picks right back up where it left off in high school. The man stalling his Harley, desperately chasing his youth, will never catch it. He'll most likely be crippled on the road, because wrecking on a bike is inevitable. I always thought ignoring the inevitable is a young man's sport, but times are changing.
He's definitely not alone in the pointless pursuit of cool.
|A Super Gay and Super lame movie.|
I never knew a common ground demanded so much work. I guess folks that ride motorcycles are just looking for a friend. I watched as two "bad ass" bikers sat next to each other at the red light. The two strangers sought each other out as they zigzagged perilously through traffic to share a moment together. Don't get me wrong, motorcycles are sort of cool, but I just don't want an arranged marriage with a man in order to own one.
I know there's other cults of machinery and clubs centered around vehicles. Where the Harley cult differs is they seem to be posers. I honestly think most of them think there's a camera crew making a digital record of their bad-assery 24/7. Being a master of your machine comes second for most Harley owners. The primary focus of finding the elusive jacket ,that matches their chaps, is paramount.
|The father of this family owns 3 Harleys.|
Wearing chaps for fun is also super gay. I've seen some graphic things on the interweb that confirm the above statement. A buddy of mine often emails me attachments titled "Fishing Trip", "Vacation Photos" or "Pics of My Kids." Then when I open it I get a lesson on what it takes to be a power-bottom. In 4 out 5 of these nefarious emails chaps are involved. Blindly opening email attachments is how I live on the edge.
Maybe I should start walking up to every person that drives a truck and hug them. I could put a patch on my jacket. I can see it now, my truck gang shall be called THE TRUCK PHAWKS and our rivals could be Hybrid owners, they'd be THE PHAWK TRUCKS.
I'm not above talking to someone just on the guise of a common ground, but I draw the line at toe jobs at the red light. What's a toe job? I don't know, but I assume only Harley brand oil goes on that toe. "It's got to match the jacket!" said the effeminate dance choreographer doing Jazz Hands.
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