Hello, sir.
You are unaware of my presence as I slowly swerve from side to side, trying to determine which of your mammoth legs are furthest away from where my bike and I will soon be. I find either option to be impossible, unless I wish to knock you over, but I do not wish to dirty your red-and-blue windbreaker, or your clever khaki baseball hat that has a fishing store logo on the side. Dear sir, I have politely asked you to "Please excuse me", but now I notice that you are listening to Tears for Fears (or something similar) on your strangely hip iPod. You do not own the sidewalk, my dear friend, but I do not know how to convince you of this. How do I reach you, windbreaker man? I meant you no harm at the start of our interaction, and now I only wish for your Sketchers to come undone, and for you to stop to tie them. I would then use you as a ramp, and do a sweet flip off of your probably-balding-and-that's-why-you-wear-that-hat head.
And then you move aside to accommodate the scantily clad blond that is completely out of your league, notice me, and shuffle exactly three inches to the left, while looking very smug that you have noticed me and caused no trouble.
I do not like you, windbreaker man.
I do not like you at all.
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thats the best thing ever.
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