Ah, Summertime. This long-beloved season in Portland ushers in the collective sussurus of bicycles being dusted off and the crisp aluminum snap of tall boys unsealed. And every single effing day, it seems, I spot a different mustachioed, ironic-chest-piece-tattooed, tank-top-and-wayfarer-wearing, skinny-jean-and-TOMS nut-hugging twerp sulking by the bus stop waiting for the 20 with his or her ARM IN A FUCKING SLING!!!! Let me guess: you fell off your fucking fixie, you twat. Big surprise…

Fixed riders, watch out: next time I see you work a wedgie out of your ass trying to slow down, I'm gonna kick you over while you trackstand at the light. Then you'll really have a good story to tell your friends at Holocene later tonight.