Time to break the Harley-Davidson out of mothballs.

Spring is in the air.

Trixie, the idiot dog of the idiot neighbors who’s been skating across a pool of her frozen urine all winter, is bereft. Her playground has melted, and now after she whizzes she watches sadly as it runs off into the adjoining concrete yards rather than frosting another slick layer onto her own personal skating rink. Nothing stops her from pissing like a racehorse, but you can tell it’s not nearly as fun when the sole result is annoyed folks downhill.

The idiot neighbors have broken their Harley-Davidsons out of mothballs and now spend all their days cleaning and polishing them with the fastidiousness of manicurists, though no beautician I know would decorate a greasy ponytail with an even greasier bandana. Once their machines meet their exacting standards -- their users’ manuals surely use words like “bitchin’,” “rad” and “grody” -- they roll them in front of other people's windows and fire the things up. Everybody within earshot leap out of their chairs, car alarms go off, and all’s right with the idiot world.

Occasionally a moron will stretch a pasty thigh across the leather saddle seat and circle around the block, revving more than his twelve-mile-an hour speed seems to require. While the chimes of an ice cream truck coax out the normal children, the deafening farts of the idiot bike bring the idiot spawn running. Finally, after his fifteenth circle, when his appearance is met with looks of “You again?” from even the stupidest child, he parks the thing on the sidewalk, where its rumble awakens the bored Trixie. She barks forlornly and once again spritzes at the cement, then waits in vain for her pee to freeze.