This is what we do....

Sorry. 

I am not cut from the cloth of lemmings.

There has never been a pied piper playing a tune I 

felt the need to follow.

The only suit that has ever fit consists of shorts and t-shirts.

jeans fall in there from time to time but

the point is I wear what fits. 

My hands are grimy.

It takes a simple look to know that these are the tools of my trade.

My hands.

Cracked.

Scarred.

Sometime they betray me,

 they hurt,

 bleed,

 and fail to follow the inputs. 

I have no desire to get the corner office. To punch a 9-5.

I want to make your bike sing fucking sweet songs.

Click.

Whir.

Swoosh.

There is a simple pleasure you can never understand about making a bike sing.

We wrenches.

We make your day,

 your night, 

your weekend.

We make the tool you use to escape, better.

We punch in and grab a Joe,

 clip the apron over our heads,

and prepare to dive into your filth.

You never bring us the clean bike.

Yours is a dirty bastardized version of what it should be.

You are too busy to notice, 

the bike becomes the street urchin spanging ( that's begging ).

You only notice when it makes a noise or goes flat.

Wrenches become the police you call to rectify the distaste.

Your lack of preparedness causes us grief you'll never understand.

Wrenches aren't there to be holier than tho.

We just turn.

Turn tubes,

turn tires,

turn gears,

forever spinning in a tornado of dust,

sports drink crystals, 

and your pure fucking filth.

All we ask is some respect.

We make pocket change for wages,

life ain't all about the greenbacks.

It's about doing for those who cannot,

shredding the proper piss outta whatever two wheeled device

puts a rise in your pants

or a wetspot in your underlings.

For wrenches...

its.

about.

fixing.

It's Friday.

Bring 

your

mechanic

a 

cold

sixer.

yourbikehatesyou.