|Cc:||Shooter & Skeeter <email@example.com>|
|Subject:||Your web site|
|Sent:||Tue, 18 Feb 2003|
I think you were born with a real teenie little weenie. Could that be your problem? Are you manhood challenged? If you woke up today, congratulations. You have another chance to fuck up
To which I replied
Gary, I wish to thank you for once again referring to the illogical argument that you have to have a big penis just to ride a Harley However, I believe the opposite is true. It doesnt take any balls to ride a Harley, just lots and lots of money. Also, elephants have big penises, but you dont see them riding around on Harleys, which kind of invalidates your argument.
I find it interesting that so many of you monobrow taint peeping munchkins base the argument for owning your Harley around the size of your penis. Why is that? Is your penis some kind of dipstick which measures your worth and capability as a rider? Is whipping out your cock and laying it on the counter at the local dealership part of the process of buying a Harley, you know, to see if you measure up or is it just your fantasy of some homo all you can eat buffet? Do you have to meet certain length and diameter restrictions before they allow you to test ride anything with a bar and shield logo stuck on the side?
I doubt it.
In fact, I think that people who are inherently insecure in their masculinity actively seek out Harley Davidson dealerships, because they think they have something to prove. They want the biggest, loudest, flashiest motorcycle they can find to prove that they are virile and potent. Freud would have a field day with you ass-twinkies.
Your email proves once again that not only is a Harley is nothing more than a giant strap on dildo for the insecure, phallus minded, size challenged simpletons of our society, but that everything about owning a Harley really does revolve around the worship and glorification of the male penis. The sound of the exhaust is tantamount to the beating of your fists against your chest to espouse your male dominance and the whole motion of the V-twin engine, up and down, up and down, is just a laughable parody of mechanical masturbation.
If you woke up today and you are reading this, congratulations, Gary!
You have another chance to get a life, and perhaps, to drop a set of your very own instead of having to buy them out of a catalog or over the counter at a dealership. Maybe between you, Shooter and Skeeter, you three, single tooth inbretards can come up with a complete set of the hairy, pink oblong danglies in time for this years scoggin mating season in Daytona.
After all, those leather G-string clad, chain
smoking, cheap beer guzzling, odious troll-skanks are depending on you three rednecks to
help continue the fine, fine lineage of self propelled utter twat-tards that have made
Harley Davidson what it is today: a redneck trailer-trash joke.