I'm so mad, I could spit. You, my friend, are what we used to called a, excuse my language now, whippersnapper. A fucking whippersnapper. Who do you think you are, going out into the dead of day, stealing a bike right in the middle of a mildly busy street? You must be a n00b bike robber. I hope your bicycle thief ringleader, I imagine his name to be either Bubba or Thor, has taken you into his dank lair cluttered with handlebars, chains and little honky horns and beaten you over the head with a basket for your ill-conceived audacity.
In fact, I hope it's the very basket that you stole along with my bike, and I hope Thor kept the one bag of groceries from Fresh Market that I can fit in there without making permanent left turns, and that the bag is filled with flaming poop. Not that I buy flaming poop all the time, just on holidays (family tradition).
Just know, dear friend, that I am looking for you or your skid mark trail, and I use skid mark very literally in this sense because the bike you happened to steal has rusty brakes, and also a keen sense to go out whenever someone who is not its owner mounts it. In fact, one time we found my friend Marty half-unconscious in the bike lane outside of Brothers, and at first we thought he was just being Party Hardy Marty, but then he told us the last thing he did before he got knocked out was think about my bike.
Maybe it's the fact that I have voodoo dolls of potential bicycle thieves of the greater Madison area in my room (and they're all guys with mustaches, it's kind of weird), or maybe it's the Eddy Merckx autographed photo that I have clothes-pinned to my chainstay to make my bike sound like a Vroom-Vroom Cycle, but the point is that the bike is magical, or at least haunted by my spirit of disapproval.
When I find you, you perpetrator of transportation thievery, you don't even want to think about thinking about what I'm going to do to you. Okay, fine, I'll tell you. When I find you, I'm going to pinch you right in the rump. And then I'm going to give you a penectomy with the knife in my sink from the time I made the peanut butter and margarine sandwich (big mistake, don't try it). And if you don't have a penis, I'll construct one to perform a penectomy on.
And then, heartless good-times-stealing knave, I'm going to do something so unthinkable that you can't even think of it...wait. Yeah, that's right. I'm going to call your mom. And at the end of the call, when she is not only a little T.O.'d by someone interrupting ""All My Children,"" but also completely and utterly ashamed of her delinquent child, I'm going to tell her to be sure to let your father know. And your Nana. Looks like Nana's not going to be making you Funfetti cake with Oreo frosting for your birthday this year! Or if she is, she'll have to send it to the county jail, and I'm sure by the time it reaches your cell it'll be all smooshed with bites taken out of it. Oh, did I mention that your cell is in jail? Because it is, and you're not getting out until you either return my faulty-but-lovable bike, the piece of the porch you took with it or the basket, which I yearn for so dearly.
Until we meet, I will continue to search endlessly on both Craigslist and within the numerous racks of campus, complain, and get my rump-pinching fingers in shape. Consider yourself warned, Mustachio.
If you stole my bike and want to return it to me for fear of penectomies, just e-mail it to VP at evanpay@wisc.edu.
