This morning on my way to work (yes I do work) I was sitting at the lights trying to pick my nose through an open visor and minding my own business.

It’s Wednesday, so you know what that means… FRESH UNDIES ALL AROUND! No wait, that’s Tuesday. Wednesdays are sleep-late-and-dream-up-some-lame-excuse-for-bring-late day.

I was already fashionably late and have decided to take the scenic route which would take me from Gordons Bay through Strand then on to Stellenbosch and eventually to Cape Town. I was pissed off because it was Tuesday, no wait Wednesday, and the asshole in front of me was playing loud BOOM-BOOM music and rattling the fillings in my teeth.
These crazy dopeheads just don’t seem to be able to comprehend any aspect of reality. At least some of the loud music sub-species-wagons is full of neatly organized cable-tied electronic shit, but they make a huge noise at night when driving past my bedroom window and making my property value drop with every rattle of the windows. I think these people are insane drug addicts who believe in aliens and fried their grey matter while listening to that bloody awefull BOOM-BOOM music long time ago.

Man, I have enough mental issues for an entire season of Oprah – but make up your own mind.

I have already worked out it would be around tea time when I get to work which is great planning because I hate to be late for tea time. I made a mental note to include “Project Planning” on my CV as I was obviously as ace at planning things and would be good at planning huge projects like mobilising the armed forces and putting all BOOM BOOM music freakshows in the dungeons and pulling their toe-nails.

I didn’t mind being late for work, per se. I was planning on devoting today to expressing my colossal disappointment with some companies in my huge share portfolio’s latest financial results, but I noticed that Financial Male kind of took care of that last month. I have a sneaking suspicion that some people working for these companies are incredibly bored by their work and just sit there in their cubicles all day and type up paranoid nonsense and post it on the Internet for lack of anything better to do with their time.

Anyway, there I was - sitting at the traffic light, the old cruiser rumbling away under me when this noisy bastard on his V-Twin pulled up. He was wearing an open helmet and short cut-off denim pants with Craterpuller boots.

REM I was trying to type he looked like Schwarsenegger but my spell checker responded with “Next time just type Arnie, asswipe”. I hate it when my spellchecker calls me “asswipe”.

He looked like any ordinary perverted businessman with huge muscles taking a day off and heading home to read schoolgirl cartoon comics and watch the Fashion Channel on DSTV. I ruined a few of these bastards when I was the top investor at the Stock Exchange. They had a robot factory at Halfway House, which I single-handedly shut down by telling the workers management got a 144% increase and have them bash it with pipes and rocks - the factory that is. I was a hero and I made a shitload of money which I keep up in the bathroom ceiling with my boxes of “gentlemens” magazines and Jet Jungle Club newsletters.

So I shuddered and wondered what he would have looked like if his mother married her other cousin. He is also looking me up and down, obviously trying to figure out what the hell it was I was riding. Then he spotted the sign on the tank and he must have looked through the lame brochure for his marquee and couldn’t remember seeing THAT name there so it obviously was a piece of shit.

So mister looks me in the eye and casually says “How fast is your bike?” – like he really wanted to know.

He tried to look genuinely interested.

I said, rudely: “Faster than that piece of shit” - indicating his bike.

The grin faded from his face (What?!? No respect - can’t have this) and he looked in front of him and moved his butt in the seat. I could almost see him thinking “We’ll see about that asshole” as he was getting ready for the take-off of his life.

The battleground was a piece of road past Somerset Mall. There’s about 400m between the traffic lights and if you really nailed it and wasn’t taken out by some mom in a 4×4 on her way to the Mall where Adolph will do her hair you could catch the second light green and be on yer merry way across the bridge over the N2 and then on to Stellenbosch. It’s not a highway - the speed limit is 60 km/h.

Add rush hour traffic and it was purrrrrfect to establish the size of the cojones on other people (you already know you need a wheelbarrow for your own, see)

We were parked between the lanes of cars. I was between lane one and two and Craterpuller between two and three. The lights changed and being the considerate person that I am I didn’t take off full trottle to save the ears of the innocent people in the car next to me and being the cause for their kids suffering from Acousticophobia for the rest of their natural lives with resultant expensive treatment. Craterpuller took off like a bat out of hell and had a handsome lead. I could see his grin in his rearview mirror.

It took me about 100m to catch him. I was starting to see blue smoke coming from his bike and I knew I had him cause my bike was still pulling strong. So I reeled him in and passed him. The grin was gone. He didn’t make eye contact. We ran the next traffic light just as it was changing and went across the bridge and came up to the next traffic light - which was red.

Then the crowning touch, or “jeannu me eloui quaea” (I just made up that phrase), the part that I love - rubbing it in. So I pulled up and let him pass me. I stop next to him. Close. He doesn’t look at me. I touch him on the shoulder.

I said: “Nice run. What is that?” nodding towards his bike. Mister ignores me. I decide that although Craterpuller and I was clearly lacking in the communication department, there’s no need to consider liberal usage of words heard on late night ActionX. But misters attlitute is hardly conducive to a conversation.

That must have hurt because as the light changes, he takes off and I’m on my way with a song in my heart.