The Best of "Jeff gives Joe Soucheray the Bird" Confrontation

[The pink shorted professional troll retreats into his dark garage.] 

Last week, following another dumb Soucheray column -- "Save us from the scooter hippies, bureaucrats. Seriously." -- a brave and noble Saint Paulite took the liberty of dropping a Bird scooter off at Joe's house.

The resulting encounter was elegantly captured on video, and the results set my heart racing with excitement.

You can watch the whole thing, and you should, but here are the highlights:


#5. The shorts

The pink shorts and boat shoes, at this point a synecdoche for privileged bro (no offense Nate), were on full display. Keep in mind there was no advance notice for the encounter. This is what Joe wears around the house.

The guy who, In one of his many anti-bicycle columns, once disdainfully described bicyclists as "hypocrites who have a car or two in the driveway at home will now put on the Italian racing suits with jerseys that look like the labels on olive jars," wears his pink shorts and boat shoes around the house. The only thing missing from the uniform was the flipped-up collar.

So now you know.


#4. The weird Rolling Stone lyrics

For some reason, at the very end of the conversation, the confrontation devolves into the random quoting of Rolling Stone lyrics.

Joe: I don’t deserve that.
Jeff: Deserve what you want?
Joe: Sometimes you get what you want but you can’t get what you need.
Jeff: And you can’t always get what you want… so… I don’t know… but if you try sometimes...
Joe: ... you might get what you need…
Jeff: … sometimes you get what you need. So… anyhow…

Keep in mind that this is the same song Trump used at his 2016 campaign rallies. Frankly, I don't understand what is happening here.


#3. Is it fun?

Where Jeff tempts Joe with the possibility of riding a scooter, and Joe really wants to know, secretly, what it's like.

Joe: Are they fun?
Jeff: Uh, you just stand there and push a button. ... I’ll tell you this, these narrow handle bars are a little…
Joe: I got 16 motorcycles in here three years ago. I’m done.
Jeff: Done? Done with two wheels… well
...
Joe: Don’t leave that pice of shit here. Keep going.
Jeff: It’s a done deal. I’ve ended my ride Joe.
...
Jeff: If you change your mind and want to take it for a ride, by all means it’s here for you.

How tempting. And Jeff didn't really tip his hand about whether or not riding a Bird is fun. There's only one way to find out, and I can only imagine a scene like the time that George W. Bush fell off a Segway.

And sixteen motorcycles? JFC.

#2. The "five spot"

Where Jeffrey asks Joe for money. And Joe basically begs Jeff to take the scooter away. A stand-off commences where Jeff holds all the cards.

Joe: Get that fucking thing outa here. I don’t want it here.
Jeff: It's not my bird!
Joe: I know it's not yours and it's not mine. Do me a favor and take it back to the 18 hole course. Please and thank you, please and thank you. does that work?
Jeff: You got a five spot to get it back there?
Joe: I don’t have any money on me. I give my money to the poor people who wait at stop signs.
... [long pause]
Joe: Jeff get it out of here, do me a favor please.

Whereupon Jeff displays remarkable benevolence in reliving Joe of the unsightly yard scooter.

#1. The "end game"

Where Jeff forces Joe to contemplate his own mortality in exchange for the scooter removal.

Joe: please and thank you.
Jeff: If you answer me one question.
Joe: Yep
Jeff: Do you really write those articles every couple of weeks? The ones you write in the paper.
Joe: Well of course I do. yes.
Jeff: Ok
Joe: It’s my truthful answer. Do you like them or hate them?
Jeff: [very very long sigh] I love to hate them. But I feel like there’s a lot of repetition. There’s a total of about 6-8 articles that you write and they just get repurposed.
Joe: I’ll consider that. I’ll think about that. I’ve been doing this a long time
Jeff: I know you have. I used to listen to you on the radio
... [pause, Joe stares into the abyss]
Joe: I’m phasing out.
Jeff: What’s the end game?
Joe: I’m going to be 70. I know there is an end game but I haven’t figured out what that is yet... But please take that out of here. Please and thank you.

Yes. We all contemplate our fates in the dark garages of our souls. We all put our heads up the tailpipes of the festival pickup trucks of death, with only the grace of God or firefighters to cut us out once more.

In conclusion

As a final note, Soucheray is not someone who deserves much sympathy. He has gotten wealthy off of trolling and flaming animosity towards bicyclists and many other groups of people.

The worst bicycling example, from many of his columns with anti-cycling diatribes, included this bit:

Now, in the summer, a bicyclist can reasonably share the street and we motorists should just as reasonably share the streets with the cyclist, yes, even if they are wearing tight shorts and Italian racing jerseys. It is always important to remember that at home, they too have a Chevy Suburban and a worn-out video of "Breaking Away.''  

But in the winter, a cyclist is a menace to himself and to the motorist. Patrick Reusse, the plain-speaking sports columnist with the Enemy Paper, reported to me by telephone the following as he was heading to a Wild game the other night:  

"Hey, what's with these bikers on Summit?''  

"They are still out there,'' I replied.  

"Well, if they fall down in front of me, I will run over them in their snowmobile suits and squash them like a bug.''  

"That's dramatic.''  

"Oh, I'll call 911 and tell them where the body is, but I ain't stoppin'."  

I share his frustration. I imagine we all do. It must be a combination of extreme poverty, misplaced virtue, environmental theology, stubbornness and a contrarian nature that compels the winter bicyclist to navigate the rutted shoulder, or worse, just take up a lane and slow down the cars. I will not accept exercise as an excuse. What I witness is not exercise, but an improbable balancing act that mimics the first wobbly ride as a child.

So feel free to drop more scooters at his house everyone.