Get Outta Town August 6
(August 6) Although I am the first to realize that this segment is amateurish and seemingly written by chimps, I actually do put a lot of time and effort into my weekly rant. Sometimes the choice is pretty obvious, like when the City Commissioners did away with the Bill of Rights and made it illegal for certain groups of people to congregate.
Other times it’s like pulling teeth to decide who to kick out of town. There are always candidates, but there are times that none of these morons have done enough damage to send them packing.
This week is unusual – I have two strong candidates. After all, there are two huge events occurring in this state this week. In Sioux Falls, we have the Sioux Empire Fair. Normally, a prime candidate…I’m sure everyone listening is expecting me to rant and rave about has-beens such as Chicago and Eddie Money or the fact that one of the days is being advertised as KELO day, complete with seminars on storm chasing. Or the charming carnies trying to hook up with na├»ve small-town clems.
But that’s just too easy, and truth be told, there’s something to be said about an event that gathers all of the white trash at one site. At least the rest of the city is relatively safe when the Fair is in town.
Maybe I should fear for my safety, but I’m going to verbally attack a cluster of folks that are heading across the interstate for the Black Hills. Hey, Cade, cue up a little Steppenwolf.
Before the lynch mob storms out to this studio to castrate me, I have to immediately mention that I’m not kicking out all bikers. True bikers are an American institution, a modern day version of the old Wild West.
Really, I’m all in favor of real bikers, despite the fact that they ruined the Rolling Stones’ free concert in 1969 at Altamont. And that event became Gimme Shelter, probably the greatest concert movie of all time. But bikers are supposed to be tough guys; imposing presences with skin so weathered it actually matches their leather jackets. A real biker has a lengthy, enthralling story for every scratch and scuff not only on their machines, but on their bodies.
You’re supposed to be intimidated by these guys. And if you happened to know one, you never had to worry about being beat up, and probably have access to good drugs.
I’m here today to dispense with a new sort of biker, derisively called RUBS by real bikers. What’s a RUB, you ask? RUB stands for rich, urban biker. Professionals by day, show-offs by night and weekends. They have not only the most expensive bikes, but the noisiest thanks to unnecessary add-ons that have absolutely nothing to do with their performance. And they have nothing but the nicest clothing and accessories.
And that’s the main, pardon the expression, rub to real bikers. They don’t wear glasses to improve their vision; they wear them because they’re expensive and look cool. Their leather gear isn’t to protect them on the road; it’s to make sure everyone knows they’re a biker.
I could go on and on. There’s the fact that most of them use trailers to haul their bikes to their rides – sometimes pulled by minivans. There’s the stupid looks on their faces when they drive down the street. “Look at me, I’m cool!” And the overly shiny and endlessly chromed out appearance of their bikes – proof that they are just part of a laundry list of toys and not an intrinsic part of their lifestyle.
It’s all too manufactured. Bikes are supposed to be an extension of their own personality and not the representation of a bottomless bank account. It’s not unlike the white high school basketball players who believe if they listen to Dre and Snoop Dogg they’ll be able to dunk like Michael Jordan.
A real biker is pure Scootertrash and is the first to admit it. In fact, they’re damn proud of it. They were the ones riding before owning a brand new Harley was the thing to do. They wrench on their own bikes, sometimes all night long to get ready for the next day’s ride. Their bikes are a part of the, not just a nice ornament used to impress their neighbors and other bikers.
And they truly earn their bikes. As one anti-RUB website states, one is only a real biker if they A) built it themselves, B) inherited it from their father after he passed away in the slammer, or C) look big enough, and inclined to violence enough to kick my ass.
And if you still don’t know the difference, just ask. It’s the best way to not only tell who’s a RUB, but also other segments of the culture. If you call them a RUB and they kill you, they’re outlaw. If they just permanently maim you, they’re a club rider or an independent. If they squeal, look to companions for support, or push over your bike in retaliation, they’re RUBS, and it’s ok to set fire to their house.
So if you’re on the highway sometime this week, pick and choose who you ogle or give a thumbs up to. If they’re a little roadworn, and the driver looks like a roadie for ZZ Top, smile and give him a thumbs up. If their bikes are being hauled behind a SUV driven by a soccer mom, feel free to flip them off, cut in front of them, or just ignore them. Please don’t give them the satisfaction that you think they’re cool. They’re not.


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