I hear people talking these days about motorcycle gangs. I listen politely while they expound indignorantly about lawlessness and mindlessness—and hairfullness and tattoofullness.
And then I ask them, "Did you know that I am in a motorcycle gang?" This usually stops them cold. They did not know I am in a motorcycle gang. That's because I don't look like a "typical" motorcycle gangster—in my "running shoes," cutting out early every day from my "writing job" to drive my "cute daughter" to her "soccer practice" in my "Subaru."
But I'm indeed a member of a gang, and let me tell you brother, we are stone cold. We go by the name, the Hard Cases. And that's just exactly what we are. One time, we raided the small town of Ottawa, Ill. It was a bloodbath, and if you'll start at the 3:00 mark, you'll see that the aftermath looked much like those terrible scenes from Waco last weekend.
So if you want to know about motorcycle gangs, talk to me, because I know all about 'em.
But if you just want to insult our free-spirited, devil-may-care, fuck-you-if-you-can't-take-a-joke way of life, take it someplace else, lest the Hard Cases come down hard on you.
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