(ouCH)MuSiNG MuSiNG ~ like riding a bike, my ass!

If my bitching and moaning has fallen on deaf ears, hear now my unabashed pontification of self-pity: I, MiCHaeL aNTHoNY, HaVE No CaR!!!!

Ergo, my Schwinn and I are painting the WeHo-town pink together. It's quite a trite (and homo-laughable) sight! Regardless, I'm rolling with the proverbial punches and being a good lil' bike rider. I've learned and am observing all the rules of the two-wheeled road, doing exactly what all bi-peddler peddlers should be doing.

But there's a reason that the old adage is "It's like riding a bike!" and not "It's like driving a car in Los Angeles!" Easily, I got back in my pre-driver's licence groove within minutes, maneuvering my bike around the streets of Santa Monica Blvd with ease. The same, however, cannot be said for those in their four-wheeling, gas-guzzling vehicles of mass destruction.

To date, not once, but twice, I have been hit by a minivan. Both times, the behind-the-wheel bitches have been on cell phones; both times, the driving whores have rolled down their window, eyed me with anger and yelled: "Wha-Da-Fuk?!"

What the fuck? What the fuck?! F-U, you monster of minivan-driving proportions. May your oh-so-precious cell phone give you and your fat head a wicked ElephantMan-esque skull goiter.