The PenIs Mightier
--Will Ferrel
Deep in Trench City, on the corner of 1st and Kemp, there was a giant ass sign for Starbucks that was never lit because the Starbucks there had been closed. Behind this sign was a motorcycle dealership with a small lot. Every day the people that worked at the dealership would bring the bikes out and shine them up, and every night they would put them back in. Tiresome work but it only takes two morons, some pvc tubing, and a pickup truck to steal a motorcycle. Actually, sometimes it just takes two morons.
Ok, before I continue any further, I just had a great idea for the internet: when people attempt to correct each other's grammer, the comment should only be allowed if it is accompanied by a page number in The Elements of Style
. No other source of grammatical whatever is allowed, most especially personal correspondence with my english-majoring ex-girlfriend's English teachers. Anyway.There was one motorcycle that was taking a while to be sold. A delicious black little Kawasaki Ninja 250 with purple rims. Don't let the purple fool you; this little Ninja is a male ninja, and there is no body kit in the world that could make it truly believe it was a girl ninja. That blue Suzuki over there with the short ass seat for girls--thats a girl bike. Anyways, the reason that the little black ninja took so long to get sold was because everybody in Trenchtown, as the locals called, mistook themselves for badasses, and couldn't be seen with on a tiny little sportbike with only 250 cc's of displacement, never mind that it was easy to handle, dominated on the curvys, and got great mileage. All in all it was a great commuter bike, and also go you laid. But the trenchcoats, as they were called by outsiders, didn't know that, and no matter how manly they thought themselves to be, they were still too insecure for the little black ninja. Maybe that blue girl bike, but not the baby ninja.
Slowly, as weeks turned into months and months turned into more months, the black ninja became self aware, and quite bored. Don't get me wrong now: this is not the cute and cuddly science project type of self awareness, but the diabolical, badass, world dominating kind. Fortunately for everyone else, the ninja had no opposable thumbs, and so the U.N. would continue mismanaging the globe for quite some time of come.
Now that we've covered the important detail, the ninja's self-awareness, lets move on to the most important thing: his first owner. This guy was a lean, scrappy artsy kid who didn't really like other artists. He also got beat up a lot in high school, that is, until he started sneaking up behind people with a knife. Well, he actually never did that, but he was three large drawings of such an event hanging on the brick walls of his loft apartment just across the water from Trenchtown. Now, the reason this kid thought he needed a motorcycle and the reason he actually needed a motorcycle are two very different things, and a subject he was most confused about. Fuck I can't belief how easy it is to write when I'm just making shit up. You realize that don't you? I'm just writing what sounds good. I have no idea whats going to happen next. I mean, a disney castle made of Legos is coming up, but--whatever lets get back to the story. So anyway the reason this kid thought he needed a motorcycle was because he was just another thin, geeky kid with not much going for him except for some failed attempts to draw girls at parties, and a replica of the Disney castle made of Lego bricks that he had finally realized was cockblocking him more than his own shyness. And the girls he was interested in down at Delta Lamba didn't seem to like pasty thin guys either, they went for guys that looked and talked like walking brick walls. He needed something to raise his status. After discussing this with several friends he decided that that thing was a motorcycle, because motorcycles have sex appeal, they said. And he believed.
However, thats not the real story, only what was bouncing around in this guy's head. By the way, his name is--no, its not Dave--his name is Carl. Carl's actually a cool guy, and what he did not notice is that ever since he was a little boy, riding to the beach in his families station wagon and watching live-fast-and-die-instantly 20-year-old morons tear up traffic on their beaufitul, shiny sportbikes which matched the colors of their helmets--and ever since he watched action movies and saw his favorite action heros save the world on two wheels--he had always secretly wanted one. He had just lost his way somewhere--perhaps during high school when girls started slapping him when he'd mention just how much he'd like to [do a] charcoal [of] their breasts.
So in Carl walked, or over, really, because he didn't have a car and walked the whole way to trenchtown, realizing, once he was balancing on the concrete road barrier with an 80 ft drop to water on one side and cars whizzing buy at 90 miles per hour on the other, that the bridge had no pedestrain path. Then he got to the other side and hid in a rusty barrel, because of the cop. Its a sordid story; lets skip it. Carl was on the lot, an the black ninja was out in front of the main entrance because the owner, Bob, really wanted to sell it, and had insisted that if they put it their, instead of the bigass grey hyabusa that looked like it didn't have a bitch seat. Bob had gotten in a giant argument with his top salesman, Spit, about the fate of that spot and Spit rightly put up a fight, because nobody wanted that ninja. But Bob swore that it would be gone before midafternoon, and also he was the boss, so Spit gradually rolled the baby ninja out to the yellow half-circle painted on in the lot. The ninja took one look at Spiff and didn't like him, although Carl would have. Spit was kinda wiry himself, but with lots of muscles, and a purple, fading tatoo that he had gotten while drunk one night. No one really knew what it was, but he told girls it was purple fire. Unless they weren't going to sleep with him, in which case Spit told them to fuck off. Thats the kinda guy Spit was.
Carl, though, was more of the love at first sight kinda guy, and when see saw that black ninja he thought it nearly glowed underneath the red (from pollution) sky. It was as if the othe motorcycles faded into grey. He jogged inside, nearly running into Spit, who glared at him, and arrived at the desk, breathless, hastily inquiring if that awesome black motorcycle had been spoken for yet. Behind the counter, Bob grinned ear to ear and held his hands wide in triumph looking at Spit. Spit ignored him and just shook his head. In Spit's defense, it was pure dumb luck that Bob had but the ninja out there that day, but Bob would never go too long without bringing it up, nevermind that that trick failed to sell a lame-ass moped that got delivered to the dealership by mistake.
Carl was not an experienced rider, and had quite an interesting time getting it home, but he was tripping balls the whole time and made it home without falling. He had a name for his new bike. He didn't know why, or where the name come, but it sounded perfect for some reason: Carbon 250. As time passed he referred to it as Carby for shot. He did know know tha Carby's engine was too underpowered to cause female riders in the second seat to have orgasms at traffic lights, but neither he nor Carbby even knew that was physically possible, and both were estatic at the beginning of their new lives.
What happens next? Does Carl get laid? Does Carby? Do aliens attack? Tune in at some indefinite time in the future, possibly never, to find out.
I actually want to know what is coming next!
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