“I am on the best bike – the Blue Bushidomaha! And look how Lin shows his happiness! He cuts himself with a screwdriver!”
Dear Blue Bushidos.
It is me, your new Blue Boss of All The Yamahas and also Testiculo Spectaculo i Glorioso de Spartano.
And I am here in this terrible rainy sweatbox of freezing air-conditionings and dirty palm-trees full of spiders, called Spandex Racetrack, in what looks like China.
So first I want to say that I am already faster than everybody because I have made the proper riding for the testing – and it was not on a stupid red Bologna or a horrible Satu Hati Mati Fati Repsolo.
I am on the best bike – the Blue Bushidomaha! And look how Lin shows his happiness! He cuts himself with a screwdriver! Even my old servant Gigi has pointed his eyebrow at me as I flew past his red tear-pit, which is full of crying, fat, and hair.
I was so fast, it was hard to time me. I had to slow down so the numbers would not upset everyone.
But already they are upset. I see this everywhere. I see that French Back-Flip Puta who surrendered seven times last year begging Gigi to give him a floor to sweep.
I see the Maniac Puta, Iannone, walking in his junkie underpants after injecting his face with exhaust smoke and holding a bag of hair he wants someone to test.
I say to him: “SSSSSSS-CHAH! I cannot test everything! Find someone else who will take your hair to a laboratory.”
I see also how the Yellow Puta’s big monkey eyes follow me when I walk from pit to pit and give the good advice to all the riders who will never win a championship.
“You are too fat!” I say to the fat ones.
“You are too slow!” I say to the slow ones.
“You have too many stolen things,” I say to the Criminal Redding, who is here stealing bike parts to sell to the criminals in BSB.
“What is wrong with your faces?” I ask the Orange Bull Putas.
And then I come back to my garage and begin my year-long guidance of the team.
“Listen, Old Yellow Puta,” I say to the Old Yellow Puta. “Your seat is too black, like the heart of Carmelo. I know all about seats and hearts. He does not. So he must listen. And obey, and make it less black.”
“Listen, Tom Cruise Fighter Jet Volleyball Puta,” I then say to the woman with the moustache. “You must ride with the neck and the ankles. Like an eagle! That is the secret.”
“Listen, Other French Puta,” I also say to the one with little Tic-Tac teeth. “Close your mouth in the heat of battle. Too much air comes between your Tic-Tacs.”
“Who are you?” I then ask the other one, because I really do not know.
“Put down the screwdriver!” I finally say to Lin. “Bring me more cold water and a nice espresso!”
And then everybody is happy and they say to me it is impossible for them to race and to win without me.
This is true. They are lucky I am here.
Standby for further testing instructions.
Always watching, always judging,
George.
About the Author
Boris is a writer who has contributed to many magazines and websites over the years, edited a couple of those things as well, and written a few books. But his most important contribution is pissing people off. He feels this is his calling in life and something he takes seriously. He also enjoys whiskey, whisky and the way girls dance on tables. And riding motorcycles. He's pretty keen on that, too.
Related Posts
“But I think the Horse-toothed Puta’s little Repsola sister will catch it because she is weak and her gums are so broad the Plague will enter through there.” →
“It is five years past the time when that tear-gushing weep-festival of despair went home to play with his dolls and cats.” →
“You have made the kaka all over my favourite racetrack, and now you are broken and hanging on a wall, dripping like the salami-donkeys in a Polish village.” →
