The Lady Doth Protest Dothen't She?

My skills of prognostication are just now being realized.  Also, that one thing they always used to complain about  in high school about using the passive voice in writing?  Yeah, it's not listened to here at Fredcube.

In the words of a dear friend, "What the hell is cube talking about?'

Yesterday (Wednesday), I talked about the new information Iron Mike Tyson is revealing about his drug use.  This was closely related to my Friday post.  What a coincidence.

Back in May of 2012, I wrote a report on the lasting effect of Lance Armstrong's accomplishments on the psyche of the stupid fat lazy greasy smoking driving public (A.K.A. Motorists).

It boiled down to the fact that this pack of morbidly obese undisciplined gooey slob matter known as "The American Public" had moved from shouting "faggot" at me (or any cyclist) to the slightly less offensive "Lance."

I had also taken note that I was hearing the "L" word less in 2012 than in it's heyday in say, 2006 or so.  I surmised (what a faggy word) that people were forgetting about Lance and that soon we'd just be back to "faggot."  I was not looking forward to it, because, well, I don't like it.  Not because I give a shit whether or not somebody thinks I'm gay.  More because it is a dangerous example of unwarranted hostility toward a person on a bicycle from a person of less than average intelligence who has been allowed to drive a car.

Well that post/prediction was 18 months ago and today, for the first time since Lance Armstrong became famous, it happened.  I was not called "Lance."

First, I'm going to tell my side of the story.  It's my blog and my right to tell things as I see them.  But because I want to be fair, I am going to tell the other side of the story too.  I realize that the person who yelled at me  has just as much right as I do to express his opinions but I have no way of finding his blog.  I would like to hear his side of the story, so I'm going to tell it after I get done telling mine.  You're welcome, guy in the minivan this morning.

For a while, I thought maybe people don't shout "faggot" anymore.  It would make sense.  As a derogatory term for homosexual, it says more about the person using it than anyone else.

A couple of weeks ago, a guy called me "Asshat" because I was not using the sidewalk through Elmwood.  I was not happy about being called Asshat.  It really bugged me that someone would feel the need to "set me straight (literally)."  So, as I've mentioned, I stopped and talked with this young student about his opinion.
I told him I had every right to be on the street and I didn't want to ride on the trail.  I have my reasons.  There is a lot of dog, foot and slow bike traffic on the trail and I'm commuting, not touring.  Anyway, he said "That's why you're an Asshat."

For the sake of staying on task, I did not address the obvious cause/effect error the young student had made.  I knew what he meant.  He did not mean that I am an Asshat as a result of my riding in the street.  He meant that I am an Asshat (cause unknown) and my riding in the street was evidence of that fact.  I ignored this little error and stuck to the main argument:  "And you're a fucking loudmouth pussy who won't do anything about it."  I then dropped my bike and stalked toward him as he ran to his car.  It's a good thing too, because I was bluffing.  I'm actually just a loudmouth pussy who wouldn't actually do anything about it.

But the thing is, even though I don't really understand what an "Asshat" is supposed to be, it doesn't seem in any way like a compliment.  It is some sort of dig.  But it is an enlightened way to call someone a name.  I personally would never use it because it sounds kind of douchy, but it is a harmless, general sort of slur, independent of race or sexuality or any other outdated mode of aspersion.

So - even though I'd like to punch that guy who called me asshat in his stupid face, I can respect his choice of words (even if it does sound douchy).

So anyway.  Yeah - this morning.

On my morning commute, I ride through Elmwood park to Pacific.  I take the high road because there are less intersections/traffic.  I turn on to Pacific and immediately get over to the left to go through Aksarben.

This morning I was in that turn lane at about 6:30.  I was stopped at a red light.  To my right was a grey minivan.  It was going straight (literally) and also stopped at the light.

Once the light turned green, I had to wait a moment for the oncoming traffic to clear.  Oddly, the minivan did not move forward.  The driver had the green light (literally), but was hesitating for some reason.  I didn't think anything of it.  Eventually, I was clear to turn, and as I got going, the driver of the minivan yelled "faggot," and took off down the street.

Oh, that's why he was waiting.  He wanted to make sure I was well on my way before he boldly shouted his insult through frosting/gravy stained taut pink cheeks and multiple sticky, sweaty chins.  Surely, the folds of skin haphazardly lodged between his chin and clavicle region are home to weeks of various pastry items and bits of fried food.

I can't be sure, but It seems like right after this incident, his cell phone rang.  Struggling to reach a flabby arm into his XXXL parka for big and tall fatasses, he answered the phone on the fourth ring, a trickle of sweat forming on his brow.

"Hello," he gasped, a little winded from the effort of shouting, answering the phone, and putting the electric window back up.

"What's wrong Marvin?"  asked the caller, "you sound more winded than normal."

"Oh, I just ... hang on, faggot,"  said Marvin, clutching at his throat to loosen his collar.

"I'm going to have to call you back, faggot," Marvin finally wheezed as he intelligently pulled the minivan over to take a rest.  I gotta get into shape, he thought, and as he remembered the cyclist he had just yelled at, something stirred deep in his loins.

Oh no, he thought.  Here it comes again.  Think about volleyball.  But it was too late.  Marvin had spent too much energy shouting and had looked at the cyclist for a little too long.  With the blood rushing to his loins Marvin realized to his horror that he had left his glycerin pills at home.  As the shooting pains went through his left arm, what looked like a brilliant white fireworks show was obscuring his view of the road ahead.  "Stupid faggot." were his final words.  Sniff.

Marvin was 42 and he left behind an imaginary girlfriend who would not find out until later that night that he would not be returning to his bachelor pad in his parents' basement.

So that kind of pissed me off.  Normally, I don't get that irritated when people yell stuff, but I was literally never in this guy's way or anything.  In a way, I'm kind of glad he's dead.  I know that sounds terrible, but really, we could use a few less homophobes in the world.

Once I got to Papillion, I stopped at ChicK-fil-A for one of their delicious spicy chicken breakfast burritos.  I don't like going into places in my bike clothes, but there is never anyone inside at this time of the morning and I get the burrito to go.

Besides, the folks at Chick-fil-A have repeatedly told me that they are happy to serve me, though judging from the way I dress they cannot in good conscience, support my "lifestyle choices" as a cyclist.  They are god-fearing Christians and everything, after all.

Ok - that was nice.  Now, as promised, the other side:

Hey, Marvin here.  How's it going?

What a morning.  Boy I'll tell you.  You'll never guess in a million years what I saw again today.  Alright, that's not fair.  I'll give you a hint.  It is something I hate very much.  It rides a bike around in the street and it rhymes with "maggot".

I thought that once we got into November, I wouldn't have to see these guys.  A lot of you have expressed sympathy for my plight, but I'm afraid you're missing the point.

It's not that these cyclists are in my way or slowing me down or anything.  It's the clothes they wear. They leave little to the imagination.  You can totally see the shape of their muscular legs and toned glutes and ...

Hang on.  I gotta slow down.  Volleyball.  Volleyball.  Breathe.

At church we learned that if you see a person that is the same sex as you and you feel sexually attracted to them, that means that person is a homosexual (faggot).

That's how I know all cyclists are faggots and the best thing to do is to call them out.  That way, they understand that I'm wise to their scheme of turning me on.  Hold on.  There's a really loud knocking at my chest.

Kaboom!  Oh ouch.  My heart just exploded because I'm such a big fat waste of human.  Damn.