Shortly after I quit my job as Head Chef of the Four Seasons in New York City, I developed an interest in motorcycles. After a few days of saving the money that I earned from various fruitful ventures into stock trading and the municipal bond market, I purchased one of the highest quality bikes I could find. I don't want to bore you with details, but suffice it to say that the bike was so amazing that every time I started it, an orphan got to make a wish.
After a few weeks of cruising on my beautiful new motorcycle, affectionately named Maria, I decided that, in order to maximize my enjoyment of motorcycle-riding, I would require a gang of others to follow me in a V-pattern. I immediately pulled over to the side of 1st Avenue and shouted "Those of you who desire to purchase a motorcycle and follow me in a V-pattern as I cruise on my motorcycle-- assemble!"
I quickly noticed a curly-headed man running toward me and nodding hysterically-- extremely excited at the thought of being in my motorcycle gang. He was wearing a leather jacket, women's jeans, and a collarless dress shirt.
"Welcome to my motorcycle gang," I said. "I shall call you Bobblehead."
"It's Dr. Bobblehead, to you."
"Shut up," I said as I slapped him across his face.
Other motorcycle-riders, including Roger Hiccuptoot, Tyler Applesocks and Gus Razorblades assembled behind me within moments and off we went to cruise the good ol' U.S. of A.
For a few days, Dr. Bobblehead, the gang, and I rode around the country, terrorizing places like Myrtle Beach and Panama City with my awesomeness and his disturbing knack for talking so much about stupid things that people tried to end their own lives. Bobblehead appeared jealous that I was getting so many ladies, and was outspoken about his dislike for riding on a motorcycle for such extended periods of time (he said he thought he could have more fun in a small, effeminate sports car).
After a short time, the gang and I began to grow quite weary of Bobblehead's voice. So, late one night, I pulled our V over to the side of the road in the dessert of New Mexico. As soon as Bobblehead dismounted his bike, asking what I'm sure was some asinine question about the size of the sand granules in New Mexico compared with Texas, I took an axe and chopped his motorcycle in half. The rest of the gang began beating him mercilessly, but I told them to stop and leave him.
I then rode Maria off into the sunrise. I wish I could say I never saw Bobblehead again.
But I did....
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