So much beauty in the world!

Australia is indeed another kind of place. The guys from Knog got back to me THE SAME DAY, assuring me that all of their products carry a 2 year warranty. Accustomed as I am to customer service which is more closely aligned philosophically to a Solzhenitsyn novel and procedurally to the Cliff Notes version of a Kafka novel, I didn’t really know how to react when Shannon from the Knog store wrote back THE SAME DAY. Did I mention that he responded to my email THE SAME DAY? Politely, and with no reservations? Man, this is weird. I feel like I fell into a worm hole and ended up in doppelCzechia, where the sun always shines and people know how to drive.

Using this chart, it is easy to determine the outcome of a service request in Prague.

Using this chart, it is easy to determine the outcome of a service request in Prague.

Of course, there are awakenings both pleasant and rude and it wasn’t long before Katka Chopinova moped along to rain on my parade. On the way home from work Friday I started noticing an alarming new trend: the “I’ve GOT to cut you off” complex. This is easy enough to spot while driving in the Czech lands, which celebrated the most deadly highways west of the Carpathians last year. The phenomenon is easy enough to explain, really. In the Dark Days ®, cars were universally underpowered and unsatisfying to drive. After 1989 and the glorious victory of global plasticulture, the western automobile remained prohibitively expensive, allowing only a small percentage of penile-deficient males in the former Eastern bloc to satisfy their urge to “get there with my man on”. As the economies “normalized” (pun intended?), more and more men found themselves capable of expressing their Perceived Testosterone Projection (PTP) behind the wheel of appropriate automobiles. Today, the gap is closing, with even the unmanly poor having access to the proper tools of manhood extension, which poses an unsettling new quandary: what to do when everyone is equally able to douche? This has led to a state  of “Podívejte se na moje”, known in the Western lands of Cheapness Shit as “Cockblock”. It is typified by racing ahead of someone coasting to a red signal, with the intent of cutting in front of him, despite the fact that you can go no further.

Back in the Dark Days ®, Honza had to live with a substandard and unsatisfying driving experience.

Back in the Dark Days ®, Honza had to live with a substandard and unsatisfying driving experience.

The roads are so full of manhood extensions that there hardly exists a gap in which to insert one’s tip. The initial, hygienically motivated urge to insert BEFORE one’s fellow, but in a manner similar to the German method, has not been placated – not by personal computers, Audis, Italian faucets or even the coveted iPhones. There now exists a permanent state of cockblock, where once again, sheer aggression and manliness is the order of the day and the rule of the road. It has gotten so bad that those lowest on the chain of enhanced manliness are now left with the unenviable option of cutting off cyclists. This is amusing, as the cutting off inevitably ends 20 meters up the road where a red traffic light weakens the enhancement. It also gives me an opportunity to “hawk a lunger” onto the windshield of the unfortunate driver, something  most drivers don’t seem to expect after swerving into the oncoming lane in order to cut me off in the 20 meter race to the light I don’t stop at. You lose, Honza. Sorry, but it’s just going to keep happening.

This video demonstrates in sickening detail how often this sort of thing happens. Every single person on earth who has been “licensed” to operate an automobile should be forced to watch this film 100 times a la Alex:

Mandatory worldwide "driver" training.

Mandatory worldwide "driver" training.

The ride home continued with yet another helpful reminder from a “driver” that I was riding up a one-way road. This road, of course, was the very road he required to demonstrate his facility for slalom in his silly Cadillac faux-Bentley. My mistake, ty vole. His kids really got a kick out of listening to their daddy scream “ty vole, ty vole, ty vole!” at a biker from the safety of his pimp-mobile. Usually they have to cower in the corner of their gravy-stained kitchen as Daddy “teaches mommy how to listen”, so this was certainly a welcome departure from the norm. To complete their lesson in departing from the norm, I leaned in the guy’s window and blew him a kiss (he jerked back in shock as I approached, the bloody homophobe). Lesson learned, Honza, may you live in interesting times and may your daughter end up servicing Italians on Karlovo namesti to pay for her ticket on the piko train.

The weekend was pretty much consumed by bike polo and drinking, which is how I like it. We now have 9 mallets, so anyone in town who wants to play, just speak up!



~ by themicah on October 12, 2009.

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