Look, we’ve known each other a long time, so know that when I say this it comes from a sincere place and that come from someone who cares for you and wants what’s best for you.

Look, we’ve known each other a long time, so know that when I say this it comes from a sincere place and that come from someone who cares for you and wants what’s best for you. It might not be what you want to hear right now, but it’s what you need to hear right now:

Compared to mine, your tricycle is an absolute piece of dogshit.

Seriously.

I remember when you came to me a few months ago with a page torn out of a magazine. You had run all the way to my house from yours. You were panting and sweating, but you had one of the biggest smiles I’d ever seen. You put your hand on my shoulder and looked into my eyes. You said, “This is it. This is the one.”

Maybe I was intoxicated with the mixture of summer air and asbestos insulation lining the workshed, or maybe it was just seeing you there in front of me in that moment of tenderness and vulnerability, but I couldn’t say it. I didn’t have the courage to look you square as a friend and say, “That tricycle is a stillborn shit stain placed alongside mine.”

I didn’t have the courage to tell you then, so I’m telling you now.

It is.

I understand that this is all coming as a shock to you. Right now you’re probably questioning my motive: Why now? Am I jealous? Am I hoping to shame you into ritual suicide? The truth is, people have been approaching me on your behalf. They say, “Look, you know him. You’re friends. There must be something you can do.” For months I couldn’t believe what people were saying. I would even entertain the thought, but I was — like you are now — in a state of total denial. The only way I can hope to shake you free from its grip is a point-by-point examination of how my tricycle literally guts your tricycle’s digestive tract with its stiff, enormous prison cock.

Behold for one moment, the glory that rests before you. Drink it in. This is my tricycle. It is fit to seat Apollo as he ferries the sun across the sky.

1) Mine is the Pinnacle of Italian design and craftsmanship, while yours is a shoddy Chinese knock off.

As the signature bell indicates, mine is in fact a one-of-a-kind, scaled-down exact replica of the Bianchi that Fausto Coppi won the Paris–Roubaix on in 1950. It is flawless. It is the manifestation of precision. It is technically classified as a projectile solely based on its aerodynamic qualities. Yours, on the other hand, was clearly manufactured by sub-humans in a terrible, post-apocalyptic version of society. It was clearly fashioned by a child with dreams of one day stealing away into the holding tank of a fishing vessel bound for America. This is apparent by the rudimentary spot-welding of the lower platform to the body. Only sleep-deprived eyes that had glazed over hours ago would allow such an open sore to pass inspection.

2) I have shark-leather streamers.

Shark. Leather. Streamers.

3) Yours isn’t even going in the right direction.

As much as presentation comes into play, it boils down to one thing: A bike is bike, and a bike is supposed to get you where you’re going. So how are you going to get there if you’re going the wrong way? You won’t. Sure you could try to circumnavigate the globe and eventually come to your destination but don’t be a fucking asshole, that’s not even remotely practical.

A visual approximation of our tricycles side by side.

I don’t know what to tell you or what I really need to do here to drive the point home, but I’ve said my piece. You can hate me if you like, but I know that I was trying to do right by you. Even though you’re mad at me right right now, somewhere deep down there, I think you know it too.

-PINKY

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