There are plenty of candidates for Biggest Jerks on the Planet awards, and perhaps you'll find your favorite among the following:

Oil company executives

Drug dealers

NBA players

Social workers

Journalists

Used car salesmen

Deepak Chopra

Fitness instructors

All excellent choices, and all certainly worthy of our scorn, but I have a category I think towers above the others in terms of arrogance, narcissism and uselessness. I speak of course, of bicyclists.

I don't mean you and your 8-year old toodling around Todd Grove Park, dad on that 50-year old Schwinn Cruiser, daughter on a used, pink Barbie Doll bike with training wheels. No, I mean bicyclists.

I mean the dipwads who squeeze into black and yellow polyester togs, strap on vented, ultra-high tech wind resistant helmets, mount $12,000 titanium and platinum speed machines, and take to the road exactly half a block ahead of you on your way to work. Those smug, sneering, phony pedaling creeps - those are the bicyclists I'm talking about.

Who do they think they are, other than the most wonderful people in the galaxy? Bicyclists obviously love themselves, and why shouldn't they? Behold their skintight red-and-green-and purple lycra costumes! Gaze upon them as they pedal furiously down a long hill while they closely examine their perfect pumping thighs and their sleek, taut forearms! Adonis lives within me, they whisper to themselves.

Meanwhile you, a carbonload dinosaur

in an old Plymouth station wagon trail behind this pack of clown-garbed sillies and blankly wonder why they can't at least move over so you can get to work. As in "Share the Road" which is a bumper sticker that every one of these rolling pukes has glued to his Toyota Prius. Of course, the bike brigade doesn't care if you get to work on time, or at all, because they're so busy saving the planet.
But what is it with dressing up like Lance Armstrong to ride a bike a few miles around Ukiah? Do these same jerks dress up like Dale Earnhardt when they hop in their car (through the driver's side window, no doubt) in order to go to Safeway?

When they have tickets to fly from SFO to Boston do they show up at the airport dressed up like Charles Lindberg or Eddie Rickenbacker - you know, leather helmet, goggles, long white scarf and a flight map? If a neighbor invites one of these cats over for a poolside barbecue do they arrive outfitted in an official Jacques Cousteau model deep sea style wetsuit, complete with US Navy quality breathing tanks?

Well then, why in the world do they think they need to look like Greg LeMond when they wheel their bicycle out of the garage on a Thursday afternoon in order to ride six blocks to the post office?

Bicyclists are silly, immature people playing dress-up and make believe. They are the most selfish people you are likely to encounter in your everyday life as they move in a herd up and down the hills on the Boonville Road, staying three abreast to prevent cars from slipping by, and swerving gently across the lanes in case one tries.

I'd like these people rounded up and sent to Guantanamo Bay.

Next time you encounter a batch of bicyclists gathered outside a coffee shop, them and their bicycles completely and defiantly blocking pedestrians and preventing them from using the sidewalk, pick the bicycle boy with the most garish outfit, walk up and punch him square in the nose.

But first take care to don a pair of official Leon Spinks' model Everlast boxing trunks.

Nessie has never hada pink Barbie Doll bicycle with training wheels.

for more of my views see;
www.indybay.org/nessiefiles
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