Writing Boots

On communication, professional and otherwise.

Craig’s PISSED

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My graphic design partner in crime Amy Wimmer sends one of the most compelling pieces of communication I've seen in awhile—an ad on Craig's List.

Tell me you don't want to see this bike after reading this ad:

Bike for sale

What kind of bike? I don’t know, I’m not a bike scientist. What I am though is a manly guy looking to sell his bike. This bike is made out of metal and kick ass spokes. The back reflector was taken off, but if you think that deters me from riding at night, you’re way wrong. I practiced ninja training in Japan’s mount Fuji for 5 years and the first rule they teach about ninja biking is that back reflectors let the enemy know where you are. Not having a rear reflector is like saying “FUCK YOU CAR, JUST TRY AND FIND ME”.

The bike says Giant on the side because it’s referring to my junk, but rest assured even if you have tiny junk that Giant advertisement is going to remain right where it is. I bought this bike for 300 dollars from a retired mercenary that fought in both World War 1 and World War 2 and had his right arm bitten off by a shark in the Phillipines while stationed there as a shark handler. When he sold it to me I had to arm wrestle him for the honor to buy it. I broke his arm in 7 places when I did. He was so impressed with me he offered me to be his son but I thought that was sissy shit so I said no way.

The bike has some rusted screws, but that just shows how much of a bad ass you are. Everyone knows rusted screws on a bike means that you probably drove it underwater and that’s bad ass in itself. Those screws can be replaced with shiny new ones, but if you’re going to go to that trouble why not just punch yourself in the balls since you’re probably a dickless lizard who doesn’t like to look intimidating.

The bike is for men because the seat is flat or some shit and not shaped like a dildo. If you like flat seated bikes you’re going to love this thing because it doesn’t try to penetrate your ass or anything.

I’ve topped out at 75 miles per hour on this uphill but if you’re just a regular man you’ll probably top it out at 10 miles per hour. This thing is listed as a street bike which is man-code for bike tank. The bike has 7 speeds in total:

Gear 1 – Sissy Gear
Gear 2 – Less Sissy Gear
Gear 3 – Least Sissy Gear
Gear 4 – Boy Gear
Gear 5 – Pre-teen Boy Gear
Gear 6 – Manly Gear
Gear 7 – Big Muscles Gear

I only like gear 6 and 7 to be honest.

Additionally, this tool of all immense men comes with a gigantic lock to keep it secure. The lock is the size of a bull’s testicles and tells people you don’t fuck around with locking up your bike tank. It tells would-be-thieves “Hey asshole, touch this bike and I’ll appear from the bushes ready to club you with a two-by-four”.

Bike is for 150 OBO (and don’t give me no panzy prices)

   

Compensations

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Writers write.

We also bitch: Not enough pay, too much interference, disrespect from the "doers" of the world.

But there are compensations, as I was reminded this week.

For instance, the more painful the root canal, Cubs loss or professional humiliation, the better the material. (How do people bear up in such situations without the indulgent little thought, "Hey, I could get a great story out of this"?)

And in business: A writer's mediocre idea floats on sprightly prose, while the non-writer's mediocre idea sinks in leaden language.

And, when your favorite uncle dies and your grieving dad asks you to say something at the funeral, you can say yes.

(Here's part of what I said about Uncle David:

I’m thinking about the time I came down here, and visited you and Aunt Zodie—just me!—for a dream weekend of golf and tennis and baseball. I remember sitting with you in that riverboat restaurant in Cincinnati when I was 11. That was a big day. Probably first time I flew by myself, probably the first time I saw the Ohio River, probably the first time I had shrimp cocktail …. probably the first time I saw a martini. (And the second time I saw a martini.)

All that was fine and all, but …. well for Godsakes, I could see that traffic just over my shoulder, those car lights creeping into Riverfront Stadium as the sun started to go down.

You were watching me watch that traffic go into Riverfront Stadium. You knew I was polite to quite say: “Uncle David, I do not want to miss the first pitch.”

Suddenly I heard you ask for the check with a chuckle—you are one of the world’s greatest chucklers—and I realized that you knew I was coming out of my skin to get into that ballpark. And what’s more, you approved of my enthusiasm. You liked me because I was excited.

Unlike so many other grownups in my life—and this remains every bit as true today as it was then—you didn’t encourage me to play it cool.

You encouraged my love for whatever I loved.

And you loved what you loved.

I still see you reading the sports page in the kitchen of that glorious house, and remember the way you smoked your Pall Mall and drank your coffee and, with your giant pinky in the air, savored your last piece of toast.

And I always liked your stock answer when somebody made fun of you for eating too much of something that wasn’t good for you. You just grinned and said, “Well I kinda like that stuff!”

I think that kind of sums up your attitude toward your whole life, which hasn’t been entirely easy, hasn’t been anything like perfect. But you didn’t miss one last piece of toast.)

And then afterward at the reception, when a stranger comes up and says you did a good job with Uncle David's eulogy, you can say, "Well Uncle David made it kind of easy." And he laughs and nods in perfect agreement and the two of you head to the bar together, for another Bombay and tonic.