For those who don’t know, last Sunday, my wife produced the Ed Decker 50th Birthday Roast held at Winstons Beach Club. It was great, and, by “great,” I mean the way being shackled to the Judas Chair for a two-hour Spanish Inquisition is great. In all seriousness, a good time was had by all. My only regret was that the roast lasted so long that I didn’t have time to rebuke a lot of what was said about me.

Perhaps I’m breaking some sort of unwritten roast rule by responding ex post facto, but after the ass-reaming I received by my so-called friends, I don’t give a flying fart-factory about rules.

For instance, Jose Sinatra opened his set by saying, “I thought this was a wake!” and proceeded to sing a song about me being dead, which is funny coming from a man who appears to have been hit by a train and then reassembled by a hook-handed, alcoholic mortician.

Manya Buske told the crowd how—years before she met and married my pal, Duane—I got her drunk and tried to make out with her after she threw up.

Horseshit! I tried to make out with her before she threw up, when she was still passed out. What kind of monster do you take me for?

Nearly all the roasters cracked wise about my uncommonly soft hands, questioning my masculinity. Yes, it is true, I do have soft hands. However, isn’t the most important function of the hands to masturbate? So, whose masculinity is in question here? The guys who get their trophies shined by their own callous-covered, man-mitts or me for being manually serviced by my soft, sensual girly muffs?

Speaking of soft young women—a lot of grief was dished about how an old, fat slob like me could have scored a hot piece of ass like W. Well, there are only three possibilities for this: 1) money—which we can eliminate immediately as I don’t have any; 2) girth—I could have an extraordinarily large phallus; and 3) damaged goods—perhaps there is something wrong with W.

She's hot, but she hates me

Maybe her credit has been ravaged or the vagina broken. Maybe she nagged all her previous boyfriends into the grave. Well, I can tell you that one of the latter two are true. Either I am extraordinarily endowed, or there is something terribly wrong with W. I don’t care which you believe.

Ted Washington told grandiose lies about my basketball skills.

Sandy Fimbres cruelly cracked wise about my cotton phobia. (Cotton phobia is no laughing matter woman!)

My old chum from boyhood, Tony Perrello, told some horribly embarrassing stories from my youth. For instance, he shared the now-infamous anecdote of The Zit Pin.

Yes, it’s true, during my acne-addled teenage years, I used a sewing pin to pierce and drain whiteheads. Laugh all you want, but anyone who’s had teenage acne knows it’s tolerable to have a few pimples—but whiteheads must be annihilated! And what do most teens do when the blinding, blanched sun of a whitehead dawns upon their faces? They squeeze them, which is an unsanitary and violent act (from the pimple’s perspective), only serving to anger and inflame the abomination.

So, I invented the Zit Pin Technique: You take an ordinary sewing pin, sanitize it with a lighter and prick a tiny hole into the beast with surgical precision. You then drain the fluids, pat with tissue and— voila—no more whitehead. Naturally, my “friends” all laughed about this. Alas, that’s how the world responds to innovative genius.

Mom and The Brother

One of the big hits of the roast was when The Mother got on stage. Mom, who flew out from New York to attend the roast, complained about how she was in labor for 22 hours during my birth and that I’ve been an ungrateful bastard ever since. For this, and other comments, she received a robust standing ovation. Fine. Whatever. I just think you should know a little bit about the person for whom you applauded.

This is a woman who would come into my room in the wee morning hour and smush a cold, wet rag in my face singing, “Rise and shine and give God your glory-glory,” at the top of her lungs.

This is a woman who, to amuse herself, would kick over the Monopoly game my friends and I had been playing for three hours.

This is a woman who, when I was 10, made me watch Psycho before bedtime, spurring a three-month recurring nightmare about her slashing me in my sleep.

This is a woman who’ll stop at nothing to embarrass me. Get a load of this move: On a visit to New York last year, I asked if she wouldn’t mind dropping me off at the local watering hole on her way out to do some shopping. When we pulled up to the bar, there were about six or seven people out front smoking cigarettes. I stepped out of the car and shut the door—somewhat embarrassed to be 49 years old and driven around by mommy.

As she pulled away, this Monopoly-stomping, nightmare-inducing, wet-rag-smushing matriarch of maternal misconduct rolled down the window and—using the voice of a woman who just dropped her son off for his first day of school—shouted, “Now, Eddie, be a good boy and don’t stay out too late.”

The entire smoking lounge erupted in laughter as I darted past them to get inside.

Twenty-two hours of labor? Pffft! I’ve spent 30,000 hours on the phone, fixing The Mother’s computer problems—which range from, “How do I turn it on?” to “What’s this mouse-like-looking thing?” The last time, she needed help using the Internet. I told her, “OK, now cut and paste the URL into the browser,” and she blurted, “Cut and paste!? You know I’m not good at arts and crafts!” Remember all this the next time you’re considering applauding her.

Ted Washington hates me

The deus hates me

Drew hates me, by picking up on The Mother

The Inlaws like me

Danielle LoPresti and Alicia Champion

"Hi, I'm in a Ramones cover band. Wanna make out?"

The setup: “This is a roast? I thought it was a WAKE! How disappointing.”

Cue music…

Apparently, a party of 12 had run X ragged throughout their meal and afterward had asked to split the check six ways. As every server knows, splitting checks is a royal pain in the cranium, but Dr. X did as he was asked, and they each repaid him by drawing a big, fat skink egg on the line where the tip should have gone—hence his recommendation that they never return.

“Instead of the owner having my back,” X wrote, “I was thrown under the bus and suspended for one shift…. I now know the owners do NOT have my back in these kinds of situations.”

“Dear Dr. X,” I responded, “You are lucky you didn’t get fired. You say the owners didn’t have your back, but when you tell 12 paying customers, in a recessed economy, to never return, it could be argued that it was you who didn’t have the boss’ back, because I’ll bet dollars to Datsuns that all 12 of them are out there right now spreading the word about the rude service over at ABC Bar and Grill.”

Dr. X was thankful for my perspective and admitted that he had become “very cynical as of late.” This did not surprise me, as I’m quite certain Dr. X suffers from a case of Acute Server burnout Disorder (ASBD).

Aside from confronting customers about tips, symptoms of ASBD include: red face; bulging neck veins; acid leakage from ears and eyeballs; a chronic, condescending attitude; heavy drinking on shift; and a general antipathy for half of humanity, contempt for half of the other half and slavering disgust for the remaining half of the last half.

Dr. X, take it from one who’s been there and had that, this disease is highly progressive. You must be proactive in preventing the spiral toward its irrevocable end-phase—when you become a hissing, seething man-lizard with razor-sharp talons and an empty, black soul.

Look, I know as well as any how rotten it is to be stiffed on a large, troublesome table, but them’s the breaks, kid. Sometimes you get over-tipped and sometimes you get the cold, cruel rod of nada shoved up your ass. My point is, obsessing about it only hurts you. If you plan to stay sane, you must forget about stiffers. Instead, try to return to the mindset of those exciting early days when you were just starting out in the business.

I remember when I first got behind a bar; I couldn’t believe I was getting paid to work in a happy, fun, party place with great live music, smoking-hot girls, the ability to catch a funbuzz and serve customers who gave me more money than was the cost of the thing that I served to them!

What is this strange and magical thing they call “tips”!? I wondered.

And, yes, I know: Acute Server burnout is a disorder from which it is difficult to recover, especially in the final stages—when you hate the bar and the bands, the funbuzzes become more murky and stygian and your clammy lizard claws are ready to carve out the organs of the first customer who stiffs you.

I know a waitress who chased a stiff all the way out to the parking lot and yelled at him in front of his friends.

I know a bartender who threw coins back at people if they dared not tip with paper currency.

I know several bartenders who refuse to put alcohol in the drinks of chronic stiffers.

I know a bartender who served a shot of bar-mat juice to a stiff. Oh wait—that was me! In my defense, it was 2:05 a.m., the lights were up and he asked— no exaggeration—about 10 times to serve him another drink. I kept saying, “We’re closed. You have to go,” but he refused to leave, until finally I told him I would give him a free shot if he would go.

He agreed, so I poured the revolting bar-mat smegma into a rocks glass. The stiff was drunk enough to not notice and guzzled it down. He thanked me as he stumbled out the door. I’m not proud of this. But I was in the full-blown stages of ASBD and unaware of how reptilian a move that was. And the customer did deserve some culpability for what happened. I mean, he did, pretty much, ask for it.

Thus do we come full circle. Because all my ASBD-suffering friends and I wouldn’t have even developed this disorder were it not for guys like him. Being at the beck and call of thousands of shitty, rude, insensitive, loud, whiny, drunky, complainy, crude, violent, entitled, holier-than-thou, out-of-line, demanding, bellicose pecker-planters is exactly the reason the following public-service announcement will soon air on all major networks:

Narrator (in a foreboding voice): “Did you know eight out of every 10 service-industry employees will suffer from Acute Server burnout Disorder in their lifetime? For just a small percentage of the price of a meal (say, 15 to 20 percent), you can help stop the spread of this tragic disease; well, that and, you know, stop being such annoying ass-faces all the time! Don’t shout or whistle, triple-step the waiters, finish your drink when the bar closes or puke on the pool table; do the math on a 12-top check your own damn self, and if the servers are in the weeds, do like Otis Redding and ‘Try a Little Patienceness.’”

—Paid for by SASS (Servers Against Stiffs and Scalawags)

“If Barack Obama becomes the president in November, again,” the Motor City Bragman told a mooing herd of NRA bovine, “I will either be dead or in jail by this time next year.”

I love watching him rant because, when he does, you can actually see the insides of his mouth, see past the tongue, past the uvula, all the way down his throat and into his warm wet guts, which I suspect to be the womb where Stupid was born.

“See, I’m a black Jew at a Nazi-Klan rally, and there are some power-abusing corrupt monsters in our federal government that despise me,” he later said in an attempt to justify his NRA comments.

Oh, yes, I’m amused by Ted Nugent—The Noodge, as I like to call him—for having saltpeter in his pecker and gunpowder where his brain should be, but not nearly as amused as I am by the professional overreactionistas who vocalize outrage over comments that offend or frighten them. I don’t know about you, but I don’t have the time, nor the interest, nor the extra room in my rectum to store any bitterness toward anything a man with gunpowder brains and saltpeter jism has to say.

“The comment is disrespectful to blacks and Jews,” wrote James Johnson of Inquisitr.com.

Oh, for crying out Christ. It’s a frickin’ metaphor! If I say, “I’m a kitten at a coyote convention,” would that be disrespectful to felines? Yes, of course, his characterization of his perceived outsider status is excessive, but that’s how you have fun with analogies—by taking them to the absurd extreme, such as when I write, “If ignorance is a disease, Ted Nugent is HIV (Hateful, Idiotic and Vapid).”

In a group conversation about the subject, my friend Eber said, “The major problem [with Nugent’s analogy] is that the black Jew at the Nazi- Klan rally would likely be the least psychotic attendee, not one of the most.”

“Good point, Eber,” I replied. “So, he’s not a black Jew at a Nazi-Klan rally; he’s a Nazi-Klansman at an African-Jewmerican rally.” Works for me. Although, it would have been even more accurate if Nugent had said, “I’m like HIV at a white-blood-cell rally,” because, yeah, the white blood cells will gang up on him—but that’s a good thing.

In defense of Wango Derange-o’s right to make obtuse remarks, another friend said, “Whatever happened to free speech?” “It’s not a free-speech issue,” I responded. “People have a First Amendment right to say what they think about what other people say, so it’s more of a Don’t-be-Such-an-Overreactionary-Pussy-All-the- Time issue.”

This goes both ways, by the way. People tend to think liberals have a monopoly on being offended by the politically incorrect, but conservatives are just as militantly offended about stuff. Take the controversy over Hillary Rosen’s comment that Mitt Romney’s wife, Ann, “never worked a day in her life.”

And, oh, did the overreactionistas overreact. In their minds, Rosen had attacked stay-at-home mothering. They claimed that her remarks were insulting and hurtful because (duh) parenting is hard work, while utterly ignoring Rosen’s context, which was this: “You have Mitt Romney running around the country, saying, ‘My wife tells me that what women really care about are economic issues.’ … Well guess what? His wife has never worked a day in her life. She’s never really dealt with the kinds of economic issues that a majority of the women in this country are facing.”

Now, I happen to disagree that you must have a job to have a valid opinion about the economy, but it’s clear that Rosen wasn’t disparaging a woman’s choice to stay at home; nor did she claim that parenting isn’t hard work. She simply failed to distinguish between the meaning of the word “work,” as in toil, and the word “employment.”

What she should have said was, “What does Ann Romney know about the economy? She’s never been employed!” And that’s exactly how the Dems should have defended her. Instead, they threw her under the bus.

“Hilary Rosen’s comments were inappropriate and offensive,” Obama campaign strategist David Axelrod said.

“Every mother works hard, and every mother deserves respect,” Michelle Obama tweeted.

“There’s no tougher job than being a mom,” the president said.

Oh, for crying out Christmastime! I despise this kind of pandering, feel-good safety-speak. Here we have the leader of the goddamn free world saying his job is easier than a homemaker’s? If he believes that, then maybe he isn’t the right man for the job. Because every mother does not work hard, and not all mothers deserve respect, and to say so is insulting to the moms out there who do work hard and deserve respect.

Ah, but whaddya gonna do? In a world full of overreactionistas just waiting to pounce on anyone who dares speak dangerously, we’ve all become fluent in safety-speak—the language of the mediocre.

’Tis true, that when God was giving out smarts, Ted Nugent thought he said “farts” and asked for a dense one, but that’s exactly why you shouldn’t let his ideas set you into a tizzy. The proper response to this sort of oral flatulence is to laugh. Just laugh—from deep in the warm wet womb where funny was born— at the gun-toting clown with saltpeter in his pecker and gunpowder where his brain should be.

Ah, yes, the classic “America, love it or leave it” retort. I actually hadn’t heard this one in a while, thinking it was finally discarded in favor of, you know, intelligent discourse. However, a quick Google search when I got home revealed that the Love-it-or-Leaviters are alive and well and still espousing Love It or Leave It theory (LILI) as if it were a golden gem of genius and not what it really is—an angry response for when you have no response to the brilliant point I just made.

I don’t know why I was surprised. “Love It or Leave It!” definitely belongs on the Greatest Hits album of the ultra-right, along with such other charttoppers as “Hit the Road Black (Ode to Obama),” “Global Warming’s a Joke,” “Fuck the Environmental Police” and the wildly popular anti-marijuana ballad, “Stairway to Heroin.”

“There’s a dealer who knows / pot smoking leads to harder drugs / and he’s plying a stairway to heroin” 

The phrase “America, love it or leave it” is what’s known as a false dilemma because it supposes only two options when actually they are bottomless. For instance, it’s entirely reasonable to “Love it and leave it.” You can also be mildly fond of it and stay. You can hate it, die and be buried here—the toxicity of your America-hating corpse seeping into the soil and contaminating it for eternity. And let’s not forget, “America: I don’t love it; I don’t hate it; I honestly don’t care one way or the other, but I ain’t leaving because ignorant, unsophisticated flag-sycophants don’t tell me where I get to live.”

There are just so many problems with LILI theory that it’s difficult to know where to begin. For one, anybody who wasn’t born with a ratty wad of used McCain / Palin campaign stickers for a brain knows that just because someone disagrees with his country doesn’t mean he doesn’t love it.

Secondly, why do you care what I think about America? Are you so insecure about the character of this nation that you must oversee how other people feel about it? Isn’t America best when it earns our love and respect, without having to demand it? Isn’t that the true test of a great country—when it has the confidence in itself to let its citizens feel however they want to feel about it?

Part of this nation’s greatness is its embrace of dissent. We’ll always have people who openly hate this country, because America was designed to let them openly hate it, which means, you LILIlivered liberty-lickers, if you don’t like that some Americans don’t like America, then you don’t like America as it was “created” and it is you who should leave! So, either stop complaining or go the fuck back to Waahfrica.

Don’t worry, you’ll love it there. Because in Waahfrica, everyone must wear flag lapel pins, everyone must recite the Pledge of Allegiance and everyone must become a member of at least one of the country’s countless waahctivist groups, such as Families for People Having to Leave Waahfrica if They Don’t Love Waahfrica or Veterans Against Deceased Waahfrica-Haters Being Buried on Waahfrican Soil.

But of all the things that drive me crazy about you LILIputians, it’s your brazen hypocrisy that tips the hippo: When there’s something I don’t like about America, I’m anti-American and I have to go, but when it’s something you don’t like, that’s perfectly acceptable. And, oh yes, there’s plenty that you don’t like about America: You don’t like our abortion laws, our immigration laws, our meddlesome gun laws, our tax laws, our medical-marijuana laws, our labor laws and our environmental laws. Add to that the president, our process-heavy legal system, ACLU, NEA, PBS, IRS, Medicare, welfare and the greatest of all American staples—hot, steamy sex just for the sport of it.

The list of things that the Loveit-or-Leaviters can’t stand about America is as deep and wide as Michelle Duggar’s wasted babyhole, yet nobody ever says “Love it or leave it” to them. And that’s because those of us who don’t have a bag of rusty flag pins where our brains used to be know that the world is more complex than a single, infantile cliché.

We know that if everyone had to leave America because there was something they didn’t love about it, the only people left would be infants, the comatose and Persian nightclub owners.

We know there’s a huge difference between loving America and understanding that it’s not perfect—even if we disagree on how to improve it.

We know the whole point of a democracy is that we get to at least try to change what we don’t like. How can anyone other than a hypocritical LILIdouchian flagophant not know that?

“Git up git git git down / Global warming is a joke in yo town.” —“Global Warming is a Hoax” by Public Hegemony

The app is called Code Red, and what it is, what it does—well it has saved my sanity, and quite likely, my life.

Code Red is an ingenious little tool that warns you when your wife or girlfriend—or any cohabitating female for that matter—is about to have her period. How it works is simple. You open the calendar, enter the date of the beginning of your lady’s last menstrual cycle, and Code Red does the rest.

Code Red has four basic alerts: Smooth Sailing, Ovulation, PMS and, naturally, Code Red! At the start of each of her, um, tidal phases, a pop-up banner alerts you to the situation. The Smooth Sailing pop-up informs you in cool blue text that “the seas are calm and the coast is clear,” followed by a series of tips about how to capitalize on this phase such as, “Now is the time to tell her about the Vegas trip you are about to book with the boys.”

After Smooth Sailing comes the Ovulation alert, in light orange text that says, “She is fertile . . . and extra horny,” and provides a series of helpful tips to prevent you from spoiling your opportunity to get laid. Including:

“Time to rediscover Sade.”

“Light a candle (yes, it really is that easy).”

“Wear good underwear. Save the ripped ones for period weeks.”

After Ovulation, is more Smooth Sailing, followed by the PMS Alert—in a foreboding dark orange text that blares, “INCOMING!” It’s rather startling the first few times you encounter it—like a tornado siren in a trailer park—and takes some getting used to. “It is time to prepare for the storm ahead,” followed by a dozen-or-so tips including:

“Compliment her hair. Remember, it doesn’t look cute, it looks sexy.”

“Give her the remote. Learn to love Lifetime.”

 “Send a random ‘I love you text.’ Don’t abbreviate with a ‘U.’”

“Happily agree to go to (annoying place) even though castration sounds more appealing.”

Then comes the alert you’ve been dreading, foretelling the arrival of the scarlet tsunami: Code Red!

“If she complains about cramps, bloating, depression [etc.], shake your head sympathetically and say, ‘I have no idea how you deal with this month after month. You’re amazing.’”

“If you have plans, say you’d rather stay home. Chances are she’ll want you to leave and then it will seem like her idea.”

“Don’t touch her breasts. They ache, but not for you.”

Code Red was created by Lisi and Kevin Harrison, a husband and wife team who have been together for “180 menstrual cycles.”

“It’s good for everyone,” says Lisi, “a giant step towards world peace.”

Now, I will grant you, most of the tips seem obvious but, as a brain-dead married man, I often miss the tell-tale signs for when Mars Attacks my homestead. And I often (read: always) forget to do the things they suggest. It’s great to have organized reminders so I can implement such strategies without thinking too much about it. After all, what do married men want most but to not think about all this marital maintenance minutia.

Oh Code Red, where have you been all my life?

My one complaint about the application is that it only accounts for normal women with normal menses. There are no tips for men who are living with that certain, special menstrual case—like my wife for example, whose merlot mongoose is so vicious, it will rip the entrails out of your wife’s mongoose then walk off cackling and licking blood from its claws.

Where most women have periods, my wife has exclamation points. Three of them!!!

True story: we once hired a team of professional hit men to assassinate my wife’s menstrual cycle but they were found dead in the gutter with sharpened tampons shoved into their eyes.

The point is, for guys in my extraordinary situation, Code Red should include a more advanced, more preventative section of tips—the kind of tips a fella really needs when the ship hits the glands—tips like:

Retrieve plate mail armor from attic.
Remove knives from kitchen drawer.
Cancel life insurance plan (no need to provide her further incentive to murder you in the heart).
Remove “Goodbye Earl,” and “Janie’s Got a gun,” from her iPod.
Fake own death.
Buy puppy she’s been wanting (it’ll give her something to kill other than you).

And for Smooth Sailing tips I would add:

Repair windows and walls. Replace broken dishes.
Email friends and family: “Still alive, thanks for your concerns.”
Bury puppy and give eulogy: “You took one for the team, Job. You shan’t be forgotten.”
Rekindle romance—with your Xbox!

By the way, Code Red tells me that it will be “Smooth Sailing” when this article runs. That’s no accident. I would never have gotten away with it otherwise. Thank you Code Red!

I was zip, zip, zipping through Ocean Beach on my little, black and silver, 150-cc Lance Milan putt-putt motor scooter when I pulled alongside a real biker, dressed in full-blown biker-gang-guy regalia, leaning on his obnoxiously loud Harley waiting for the light to turn green.

Simultaneously, we glanced at each other. I nodded hello, and he—get this—laughed in my face. He looked at me, looked downward at my bike—made a quick assessment about the level of my manhood (which he identified as a Level-7 Pussy)—looked back at me, and laughed, out loud, real nasty-like, right into my innocent face. Then he turned away in disgust, as if a glob of birds shit had landed on my head and was dripping down my cheek.

It wasn’t a big deal, really. I know the score. Harley riders deplore scooter riders the way stand-up comedians deplore mimes. And pretty much everyone else older than 12 thinks scooters are a joke, too. Well everyone older than 12 can suck on my skid marks! My ride is a beast. It goes zero to 60 in—well, actually, it doesn’t ever get to 60. But it can do 35, no problem. Only takes a few minutes to get there. Then it’s zip-zip, putt-putt all over the place!

Seriously, though, for me—a scooter makes crazy-good sense: For one reason, it’s a huge money saver. The gas, insurance, registration—even the cost of the vehicle itself— combined, is only a little more expensive than renting a couple of Pauly Shore impersonators for a party. Second, I work from home, which means no long freeway commutes. And, lastly, I live at the beach, where parking is scarce and the traffic is fierce, making a scooter an ideal vehicle because: a scooter parks anywhere; a scooter effortlessly darts in and out of alleys and backstreets; and a scooter splits the lane to get to the front of the line at traffic lights—which is exactly what I was doing when I came upon the biker.

Now, for the record, I didn’t nod to him as though I thought we were badass biker brethren of the road—as if we had something in common the way, say, a Corvette owner would nod at another Vette owner, or the way black men in Alpine nod on the oft chance they cross paths. No. I nodded to him because we were standing right next to each other, looking at each other. It was a human-to-human nod for crissake, not biker-to-biker. I would never consider my little 150-cc, Lance Milan, zip-zip, putt-putt motor scooter to be in his hog’s league. However, I’m also not going to feel inferior because my chosen mode of transportation doesn’t meet the approval of a man who cuts off the arms of a leather jacket with a hacksaw and thinks that’s punk rock.

When the light turned green, he revved up and peeled out, leaving me in a poisonous cloud of noise pollution, hate pollution and pollution pollution. And what I thought, as I stared at the back of his motorcycle jacket, with the motorcycle-club iron-on patch was, He thinks I’m the pussy!? The guy who irons decorative patches onto the back of a sawed-off leather jacket because he thinks that’s punk? The guy who replaced the stock tailpipes on his ride with ones that are twice as loud—for no other reason than to be noticed and/or annoying? The guy and belongs to some juvenile social club with handshakes, passwords, parliamentary-style bylaws and arbitrary officer rankings? Because you know how those first meetings always go: “OK, so I’ll be the President, and Bear will be V.P., and Vulgor is the Road Captain, and Sammy “the Hammer” will be Sergeant at Arms”—and then you have the “prospects,” who are basically college-fraternity pledges, which is really what these biker gangs are, rolling fraternities, the only difference being that biker gangs have goofier names. Here are just a few nuggets of comedy I found on MotorcycleClubIndex.com:

• Organized Kaos (stifling my laughter).

• The Wastelanders (as if they were a gang of rolling marauders, scanning a post-apocalyptic hinterland for scantily clad, mute chicks and gasoline).

• Gospel Riders (who are, according to their website, “Motorcycling for Jesus”).

• The Freemasons Motorcycle Club (I wonder if their helmets resemble fezzes).

• The Centurions (actually, I wanted to name my first rock band The Centurions—when I was 15!)

• The Star of David Bikers (blood enemies of The Gospel Riders).

• A Few Good Men (which is not what you think; though, you have to wonder how it was possible not to notice the gayness dripping off that name.

Speaking of homosexual bikers, I absolutely had to Google “gay motorcycle clubs,” when researching this column. Alas, all that came up were totally inoffensive, non-hilarious monikers like The LGBT Motorcycle Club, The Golden Gate Guards, and The Spartan Motorcycle Club. What a disappointment! I was hoping for some totally awesome, totally faggy, gay-biker-gang names, like The Sodomites, or The Truck Stop Cruisers, or the queer chapter of the Mongols Motorcycle Club, The Mangols, or how about The Fag Hags, for a motorcycle gang comprised of meth-addled, straight chicks who follow the Mangols, or, my all-time favorite gay-biker-gang name I just made up—Hell’s Anal’s.

I swear to God, I am seriously thinking about going gay just so I can wear that patch on the back of my sawed off leather jacket. At least then, when I encounter one of these holier-than-thou Harley enthusiasts on my little zip-zip, putt-putt motor scooter, he’d have a reason to object to my presence: because my iron-on biker-gang patch isn’t making fun of gay people. It’s making fun of him, and his amusing fraternity, preposterous costume and obnoxiously loud tail pipes which he intentionally modifed for no other reason than to be obnoxious and loud.