Tell us about your bike, Bobby.
“I like to ride it, or sit on a rock with it, or just carry it around. When I carry it around, I always imagine the bike being all ‘Whoa: this is backwards,’ and then I’ll laugh, and if I laugh too hard, I’ll sit down on a rock.”
But what about the actual bicycle, Bobby?
“Oh, it’s made of some stern stuff. They were gonna do me a carbon fiber jobbie, but I thought carbon was a bit common, so I had them make it out of boron fiber because, elementally, that’s one better. Also, the seat is made from human skin.”
What? Where the hell did you get such a thing?
“I got it. Don’t worry about it.”
Ok.
…
What were we talking about?
“I like everything about biking: going slow, not having any safety gear, taint pain.”
It sounds awful, to be frank.
“And the clothes! White people don’t achieve full white-personhood until they put on some cycling gear! The spandex, the lycra: you look like a superhero! I mean, sure: your superpower is making people want to run you over with their Buick, but that’s still better than nothing.”
I like your gloves.
“Yeah, they’re awesome. Can’t masturbate in ’em.”
What?
“Trust me.”
Good talk, buddy.
Whereas, Pig was an actual “Biker” and rode something with an engine.
You can jerk off (Or, better yet, BE jerked off) while riding a motorcycle, once you get into 4th or 5th gear. Gloves, no gloves, doesn’t matter.
Don’t ask me how I know these things. YOU don’t want to know.