fixiedunk1If I could dunk on anybody or anything, I would dunk on Fixed Gear Bikes with my Big Red Beach Cruiser.

You see, these cycles are not content with being merely a vehicle for leisurely human-powered transportation, but instead insist upon representing yet another ridiculous lifestyle symbol for the overly self-important hipster whose actual personality is so devoid of meaning and/or substance that it can only be expressed through their choices of material possessions and brands.

Despite having only a single gear and no hand-brakes, the fixie is faithfully worshipped by it’s sheep-like admirers. The time for it to be savagely dunked upon is nigh.

Here’s how I see it going down.

The dunking would take place on the Muscle Beach basketball courts in Venice. I would arrive triumphantly, greeted as a heroic liberator by all those who for too long have felt belittled by the oppressive bicycling attitude of the fixie and the snobs who ride them.

I would come cruising down the beachside bike path, just chilling from a relaxing day at the beach.  I would be popping a full wheelie on my big red beach cruiser with flames on the side, powerfully waving to my many admirers. The fixie would be kick-standing on the court, oblivious, getting worked on by its compulsive owner, who clearly just gets off on feeling mildly mechanical because he can play around on his bike with an allen wrench.

Screeching to a halt on the other side of the basketball court, I would powerfully call out my challenge to the fixed gear bike.

“Fixie, prepare thyself! For by the power of Pee-Wee Herman, you are about to be violently dunked upon!”

I would then begin my ascent, peddling furiously, switching higher and higher through all seven of my gears as I picked up speed. As I approached the fixie beneath the basket, it’s sallow, cowardly hipster owner would drop to the ground in a gesture of equal parts fear, deferment and awe, and my big red beach cruiser would use him as ramp, finally taking glorious gliding flight over his expensive yet simple bicycle.

Oh how I would glide through the air, ever so comfortable and chilled out on the fat custom leather seat of my big beach-cruising hog. My glide would be so beautiful and strong, streamers flowing freely and proudly from my handlebars, the cool ocean wind deferring to my determined face and Oakley razor shades.  In the back ground, a pretty hot chick would be playing “Santeria” by Sublime on her iPod enabled boombox.

My glide could only be described as what would happen if Clyde “The Glide” Drexler and Michael Jordan had a threesome with Evel Knievel at the 1989 Slam Dunk Contest.  The result of that menage a trois would be the birth of a winged baby on a beach cruiser with a badass tan and some sweet tribal tats.  For the record, Drexler would actually birth the bike since Evel and Jordan are way too busy and awesome to be pregnant for 18 months (yes, it’s a long gestation, but the bike is just that sweet).

Finally reaching the basket, and aggressively stuffing the rock deep down inside of it, I would hold on for a victory hang-and-swing, spinning the beach cruiser round and round in my powerful clenched legs, hypnotizing onlookers with my effortless athletic prowess. I would finally release the rim and fall from the basket, my full weight and my big fat cruiser coming down right on top of the weak little fixie, and the weak little bike messenging hipster wuss who rides, both bike and rider crumpling like cheap aluminum foil beneath my weight and power.

After five minutes of still, stunned silence from the crowd of thousands who have gathered to witness this disgracing of an entire lifestyle brand of bicycling, I would mount trusty steed, pop a wheelie and a wave goodbye, then finally ride off into the Venice Boardwalk sunset in search of some tasty waves and a cool buzz, brah.

Alex Blagg lives and works in Los Angeles.  He does not own a bicycle, but does pw3n Wonderwall.

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