A Gang

A gang of bikers called “Moguls of Mexico” were parked up and down my street and I had to go pull out of a street quite a bit to see when I could cross onto Sunset. There was no crosswalk where I was, I was not in front of painted pedestrian lines. It was an open street, and when the Mogul stepped off the curb he simply had to take one extra step behind my car. He slammed his fists on my trunk and scratched with his cheesy spike bracelet. “BITCH MOVE THE CAR”

I can’t take it and I rolled down my window, shreiking, “F*** YOU! I’m not a bitch. I’m not in a crosswalk. Your f**** bikes are three rows deep on Sunset. I can’t see. I’m not deliberately being rude. I’ve been parked here for almost 5 minutes, waiting to cross. You just walked up. I didn’t pull up in front of you. Did. I? DID I?”

I waited for him to answer. He said, “Shut up! Stop expalining!”

I said, “I’ll never stop explaining you cheesy bracelet F*****!”

I drove off. Man! I am so tough he should have initiated me right there.

What is this gang anyway? They weren’t even Mexican. They were white. I’d be pissed if I were Mexican and someone was representing my country with bad outfits that look like you’re in the biker scene from Pee Wee’s Big Adventure or WORSE yet Back to the Beach.


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