Today’s beef is in regards to the masculinity-affirming, thrill-providing, boob-attracting, and death-inducing boy-toy known and loved by those who ride them as the Crotch-Rocket. Actually, my beef is more with those who ride them than the actual machine, but since without the bike, those douches are similar to other breeds of “bro”, we must knock the bikes as well as the drivers.

Since I am not of the same persuasion as said douches, that is guys who wear tribal arm-band tattoos and Ed Hardy t-shirts with matching bandanas tied around their head, I personally have never felt the need to prove my manhood by zipping in and out of traffic at high-speeds on such a two-wheeled death trap (choppers are another story).

Nonetheless however, these "bros", have as much right to douche-it-up on the open road as the rest of us have the right to laugh at, ridicule and blog about their overcompensating tendencies. If you're still a little fuzzy on my definition of "bro", imagine the cargo-short-wearing, ass-paddling frat guy who force-feeds jello shots to already intoxicated and under-aged coeds. Now imagine him riding a brightly colored (usually red or yellow) Yamaha or Kawasaki down the street, cutting you off at the last second to make the turn into Circle K to buy some more Red Bulls. Got an image? Yeah, it's that guy.
            Despite my opposition to such bro-ery, one thing I think guys and bros alike will agree on is that if you must ride a crotch-rocket, it should only be done by yourself or with a hot girl on the back. A simple way to remember this important rule is the ratio one crotch-rocket, one wiener. Unfortunately, some moto-bro's haven't yet gotten this memo. To every guy who has ever considered owning one, ponder this: There will come a point in time when you will be hanging out with one of your dudes. You of course, will have ridden your crotch-rocket to the location of your hang-out, and your dude will need a ride.
            This morning I saw a bro in a pin-striped suit on the back of a crotch-rocket with his legs tightly wrapped around the bro who was driving it. Needless to say, driver-bro was wearing cargo shorts, an Ed Hardy t-shirt and a matching bandana. I had to ignore my instincts compelling me to swerve into opposite lane to hit them in an effort to stop the continued commission of this crime against man.

In what appeared to be either the gayest carpool in the history of the internal combustion engine or the new big-bro/little-bro program at ASU, it looked as though backside-bro had a job interview and the only way to get there was on the back of his amigo’s red chariot. Never mind the fact that the interviewer was probably wondering why the guy looked like he slept in a wind-tunnel when he got there, what must he or she have thought when they looked out the window and saw their applicant mounting another man’s backside in the parking lot as he was leaving? I know times have changed and employers are more accepting of “alternative lifestyles”, but I would have taken a cab this time. Besides, in Arizona, I think it’s still legal to lynch a guy for such indecent displays of man-love.