I lived in a nice little working class neighborhood, and a bunch of overweight, greasy-haired, loud, uncouth motorcycle fanatics moved in right across the street. And a condo developer bought up a bunch of lots at the end of the street and put in a hoity-toity gated community (which cut off our access to the main road).
Time went by, and too many of the condo people found out that they could have their dogs poop on working class grass without anybody daring to say anything. Not me, of course. I kept berating the bastards. There was one elegant blonde lady that I even got to shouting at, I was so mad.
Five minutes later there’s a knock at the door. It’s one of the uncouth, greasy motorcycle guys come to check on me to make sure I was okay and to see if there was anything I needed.
You could have knocked me over with a feather. I didn’t mind so much anymore after that when they roared up the street at midnight.
The funny thing about uncouth, overweight, loud, greasy-haired motorcycle fanatics is that all they’re really looking for is a little respect. On top of that they dislike people with money more then they dislike the cops. Just don’t touch their bike(s) or you’ll find yourself chopped up in pieces inside a plastic garbage bag.
I lived in a nice little working class neighborhood, and a bunch of overweight, greasy-haired, loud, uncouth motorcycle fanatics moved in right across the street. And a condo developer bought up a bunch of lots at the end of the street and put in a hoity-toity gated community (which cut off our access to the main road).
Time went by, and too many of the condo people found out that they could have their dogs poop on working class grass without anybody daring to say anything. Not me, of course. I kept berating the bastards. There was one elegant blonde lady that I even got to shouting at, I was so mad.
Five minutes later there’s a knock at the door. It’s one of the uncouth, greasy motorcycle guys come to check on me to make sure I was okay and to see if there was anything I needed.
You could have knocked me over with a feather. I didn’t mind so much anymore after that when they roared up the street at midnight.
The funny thing about uncouth, overweight, loud, greasy-haired motorcycle fanatics is that all they’re really looking for is a little respect. On top of that they dislike people with money more then they dislike the cops. Just don’t touch their bike(s) or you’ll find yourself chopped up in pieces inside a plastic garbage bag.