We’ve all had this happen to us.  You are talking to a family member.  You are telling a joke or story or some other thing.  "So I leave to go see Kevin, but before I can get"VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVRRRRRRRRRRRRRROOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPS
CREEEEEEEEEEECH.  "Anyway, before I can get to"VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVRRRRRRRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOPOP
SCREEEEEEEEEEECH.

This is the sort of thing that happens every day to me during the non-winter months.  Idiots on motorcycles cruise the streets with their only goal being to make as much noise as possible.  That means making everyone stop everything that involves listening for the next half hour so they can drive by.

I say a half hour for a few reasons.  One is that these fucking moron-transports are so loud that you can hear them from five blocks away.  So, that means you can hear them for ten blocks in any direction from you, which is important, since it serves the same purpose as a sex offender informing everyone in his new neighborhood about his crimes:  you both hate and pity this person, even though you know nothing else about them.

Another reason I say a half hour is that apparently motorcycles are not built with any power anymore.  Oh sure, they have the power to make more noise than a hundred infants being shaken by a hundred nannies, but they can never seem to muster enough power to go the speed limit.  It truly is an amazing sight watching a motorcycle travel ten miles per hour down the street.  It is also very loud and frustrating to be in a car behind said motorcycle. 

At least these people all have the decency to be stereotypes, as they dress entirely in black leather.  Once we get up to ninety degrees, they could all get heat stroke or something. 

Here’s the new law, people.  If you don’t shut your fucking “bikes” up, you make a choice.  That choice is what I call the “Four Wheels or No Wheels” rule.  You either drive a car (and if you can afford a motorcycle, you can afford a used car, so don’t bitch to me about money) or you walk.  It’s as simple as that. 

Seriously, fucking motorcycles.  Just burn them.

StretPharmacist is a lot like the Undertaker:  A gimmick that should have never gotten over, but was taken to unbelievable heights.  Also, he is constantly injured.