Most. Insulting. Comments. Ever.

Well.

I’d like to say that I enjoyed reading your comments to yesterday’s post, but that would, sadly, be a lie. Not because you hurt my feelings — far from it. Rather, because the bulk of you are tepid, craven souls, transparent in your greed even as you try to muster the courage to utter an ill-conceived, trite, and usually derivative remark.

But that wasn’t what really got to me.

No. It was how obvious you are. I have laid bare my soul for months now, and the only barb most of you could find had to do with that day’s post? Really, that was all the ammo you could find? You’re as lazy as you are unimaginative.

On the rare occasion somebody made a clever remark, I noticed it was rapidly and shamelessly replicated, with only minor variety. Did you think I wouldn’t notice that? Well, did you? You sicken me.

I hereby award the bag to myself.

Just kidding.

Here are a few of my favorites from yesterday’s contest:

 

Most Elegant

Fatty,

You lowly sheath. I dignify your baseness by a mere response to your sorry whine. Stand, man, stand by God. Stand and walk as a man from your shame and sorrow. Feign bravery for a moment that we, your sad ensemble of fellow betrayed followers may have just one shred, one scintilla, of dignity. Get thee on your alloy steed and make us proud again. You fatty; sorry, lumpish, and melancholy. You soft and dull eyed fool. Ride, ride, RIDE!!!

Apologies to the bard.

— jimserotta

Fatty replies: This was very nearly the overall winner, but then he had to go and apologize to the bard. If you’re going to plagiarize, go big and bold, Jim.

 

Best Vocabulary

Dear FC

When this blog began you were fat. Some would say obese. But more importantly, you were indefatigable. Full of piss and vinegar. Now you have become a slightly less fat faineant snob unwilling to risk scraping your knee or slipping on a wet leaf.

”Ohh, Ohh. life is hard. Waaahh!”

Wrong. Life is easy, YOU suck!

Maybe you should be concerned more with learning bicycle handling and less with coming up with excuses for your pitiful self. Sorry to break it to FC, but you are actually just another chaffy cager.

— craig

Fatty replies: “Fainéant?” Who are you calling “fainéant?” (Looks up word) Well, whaddaya know. That’s actually a really good word for me.

 

Special “Stuffing the Ballot Box” Award

Scared of water. Scared of leaves. Scared of wind. Exactly how much of a sissy are you?

I know why real cyclists shave their legs. And now I know why you do too. You’re a fatty, AND A GIRLY!

— BIG Mike

 

When we finally meet, I was planning on buying you a coffee and spending a day riding and chatting, but the plan now is to give you a wedgy and walk away laughing.

Between myself, little-d-dug, rocky and the kickboxing counsellor I think we should be able to administer a wedgy that will land you about 3 stories up.

— BIG Mike

 

I want my PB Oreos back! I thought you earned them but you’re just a spineless charlatan. Your seemily steadfast dedication to all things manpowered and shiny was nothing but a Seigfried and Roy quality smoke and mirrors show.

Price check on check-out 12. Floaties, knee pads, elbow pads, shoulder-pads… AND A DUMMY.

You can either spit it like you did yesterday or suck on it like the coward we have all witnessed you become.

— BIG Mike

 

I was already good at taking the fastest talkers down a notch or two. Always in fun and never if the victims seemed unstable or suicidal. That was before the deer in the headlights who calls himself ‘The Fat Cyclist’.

You may have had gender re-alignment surgery and not noticed. You should go to the doctor and have yourself checked. Men who run squealing from inanimate objects like leaves, water, wind and stuffed toys (OK, I made the last one up) are not really men.

If you don’t grow a backbone and some cajones in double quick time you will certainly grow a callous on your butt, a gut over your belt and a John Candy chin.

— BIG Mike

 

You want more? I got more, sissy boy. I just don’t want to be the one that makes you kick the chair away while you’re testing the rope in your basement.

 — BIG Mike

 

Oh yeah, I forgot.

Who’s going to finish the other half of that sit up you started when you climbed out of bed this morning? Obviously not you. You can’t finish what you start.

I hope your nurse tells you a nice bed time story after lowering you onto the pillow and tucking you in.

— BIG Mike

 

And the Winner…

Oh, Fatty, where did I go wrong with you? I always tried to raise my five daughters to be strong, and I thought I had succeeded:

Kellene- takes 18 ft. falls and barely flinches. She climbs back up the cliff with her bike on her back and rides home.

Lori- has the cojones to move half-way across this country to pursue her art. Stepping out of her comfort zone to confront her fears head on, like I always taught you.

Errorista- deals with people I am afraid to be in the same county with, let alone the same room, and she remains strong. I won’t even mention the Muay Thai training.

CJ- another warrior daughter. Stands up for her convictions even if it comes with a risk to her chosen career. Oh, she is so strong.

And then there is you, my dear. Sure, I was disappointed when it became obvious you would be the ugliest of my daughters, but when I first saw you ride your little Strawberry Shortcake bike I knew you too would be another strong Nelson daughter. My co-workers would laugh at me for sticking up for my fat, boyish little girl, but I would think about all the good you were doing by inspiring other fat, boyish little girls, and fat, girlish little boys to ride.

And then you began an inspirational blog and inspired many more with your writings of adventurous rides. I would tell my co-workers that you were like the US Postal Service: through wind, rain, sleet, snow, or heat of day you would ride.

But now you have brought this travesty upon our family name, and I can no longer return to work with my head held high. I’m sorry, honey, but I must disown you out of loyalty to the family. I only wish I had had a son, and had the chance to mold him into a man. A man who did not fear wet leaves.

Regretfully,

 

Your Father

(Actually, by nikared)

Fatty replies: Nice writing, Nikared. Although a part of me is just a smidgen creeped out that you know so much about my family. Email me with your address and I’ll send you that seat bag.

 

Today’s weight: 162.6

 

BONUS: New Cyclingnews article published: My story, “How to be a Bike Snob,” an excerpt of which I posted here at the beginning of this week, is now online at Cyclingnews.com. Click here to read it now. 

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *