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Bitci Motorrad Grand Prix von Österreich

And so we come to the Bitchi MotoGP in Syria-With-a-T, awash with vile rumours, red shame, familial degradation – and a new non-asymmetric hard front tyre because Fuque Michelin can only take so much rampant hate-cock rammed into its French vagina.



OK, is enough now. Is my turn, yes? Everybody has a turn on le podium, and now is my turn. I have slept in le dumpster for so long my hair has fallen out. My head looks like that English prince with the hot dead mother. Now it is time for le attaque! Like Napoleon I shall charge through le pack! But not all le pack because le Maverique is not there. But he is on the hill at Turn Three! Allo, le Maverique. Le sucks to be you!



No. Tell Lin to fuck off. Allora! I am not go back the Factory to come 15th on the Factory Yamaha. I can come 15th on this Malaysian rubbish right here. I am retired. I ride around with Cal at the back. Practice the swearing in English.



Rev-bomb, rev-bomb, I’m a rev-bomb! How you like them redlines, Lin! You make the sabotage on me, I make the sabotage on everything! My gun is the top! Why I have to go to the hill on Turn Three? I want to stay in the pit and whisper Yamaha secrets to Fabulous! No! Wait! Do not call security! I go, I go.



Where’s that list? Dad! Dad! The list, where is it? Yes, the Pricks To Piss Off list. Ah, OK. Yes. Let’s see…can now cross off Mir. Last week crossed off Munted Asparagus. Week before, Stupid Rins. Alex! Where is Alex? I need him to rub my arm again. And tell Puig to do something about something on the bike. It’s still shit from last time.



I do not understand what Jack say to me. I do not have a dog. Black or any colour. How can I get it up me? Up where? In me? A dog? What is mean this black dog thing he say to me? Why does he throw the full beer cans at me in the pit and tell me to “Smash that yakarn!”? What is this “Yakarn”? He knows I am his team-mate, yes?



“Come race MotoGP,” they said. “It’ll be fun,” they said. When does this start being fun? And if you say: “When I start racing” I will punch you.



Trying to crash on pushbike and get holiday did not work. Trying to crash by getting in Marquez’s way and get holiday did not work. Guess I’m back to ploughing into the nearest air-fence. I hope Cal is not already there when I arrive.



Why does Puig keep spitting at me? I bring him coffee, he spit at me. I rub his feet, he spit at me. I let him feel inside my leathers like the family priest, he spit at me. At least he is also spitting at Marc now.



What is the weight limit in the Superbikes? OK. What about Dakar? Terrific! yes, of course I must carry more weight in the desert. It is because fat is full of water, yes?



Dad, when I can I go back to HRC? Dad? Daaaaad? Marc said I was his sister. He said if I don’t leave him alone he will marry me like Miguel married his sister.



Is it 2022, yet? The grid chicks are back then, yes?



OK, so if I am the World Champion of Instagram, I can also be the World Champion of Motorcycles, yes? Am I World Champion yet? When will that happen? End of this year? When is that? So not 2022? When is that? Oh, look! That’s a cool shirt!



Get the fuck. Seriously. Just get the fuck. I retired. I went home. I started painting the bathroom. Then they come and get me because these teenage fucks need to spend weeks in hospital after an operation! Soft ponces! Wire that girl’s bones together, wrap a greasy rag around the wound, give the bitch an aspirin, and put her back on the track. Soft cunts can’t even fight a horse.



All day I look at my data. All night I look at my data. All I do is look at my data. And all I see is the same message: “You must go faster, Taka-san! But you must not crash! That is all.” I write a Haiku to my data…

My data stays the same.

I stay the same.

I will never win.



Why did the Dwarf come back? Who signed off on that? The bloke in the wheelchair? Who’s he again? Oh. Can you tell him my leg hurts. What did he say? I owe him 1.2 million Euro for burning one of his bikes?



I love this stuff. It’s great. I walk around. I talk to people. They are all nice. Sometimes I ride a bike on the track. Then I go to a hotel. Then I sleep. Then I go another track and ride around. I do my best not to fall off. Sometimes that works.



No, mum. I am not sharing any more of your Insta pics on my feed. Yes, that new bikini is very nice. Yes, the colour goes with your eyes. No, Davide Brivio has a girlfriend. I don’t know if she’s hotter than you. I can ask Miguel. He’s an expert on family matters.



Why is there a shitty cat sewed on the arse of my leathers? Does that look like a giraffe to you? I am not king of the fucking cats, am I? Fucken Cat King? Get fucked. Giraffe King! The Giraffe is the King of Africa. Is Darryn coming next year? Fuck that. Not in this team? Thank God.



No! No, no, no, no, no! Tell Vinales to fuck off. I got this. I do. No, he cannot “have a go” on the spare Suzuki. There is no spare Suzuki. I will crash both of them just to be sure.



You all forgot about me, didn’t you? But George did not forget about me. I spent a lot of time with George in the summer break. His spa is very big. He told me about the butter and the hammer. And the shark. And the mamba. And how the eagle gives all his efforts to the positive mountain that he climbs and never gives up. He is very wise.



When can I do the gender reveal? Oh come on. No-one cares about fucking Vinales. He thinks he’s a fire engine. Listen. You can hear him now up on Turn Three howling like a siren and throwing pretzels at fabulous each time he comes around that corner. Silverstone? Can I do a gender reveal then?



It’s all going off, aye? Mav’s shit his fucken bed. He’s up there running around Turn Three with no pants on, saying he wants to fight Jarvis. Miguel’s filled his sister with arms and legs. Not sure if that’s OK or not. Maybe in Porchageezer. Be OK in Townsville, I reckon. Pol tried to grind his face off – poor cunt’s so munted I don’t blame him. Good to see Dani last week. Set the track on fire, but. That went OK in the end.





Already I write twelve letters to Poo-eegah! Sssss-CHAH! I say to him. I also write the Lin. But only one letter, because Lin does not like to read very much. Look, I say to them. If you two go to the Parc Firme, down where the Mad-Eyed Puta fight the horse (And why has he come back? Have the dirty English run out of horses?), and take off their shirts, and rub themselves with Spanish Fighting Butter, they can have the wrestling contest! The winner can have me back in his team. I am ready to soar again for him! Like an ocean made from a mountain I will crush my enemies with the fire of hammers!



My amateur-level motocross is going very well. Soon I will try to make the tabletop. And then, if I make that one, then I will try to make a berm. It is very much fun to work with my hands. My tears only come in the night now…

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Boris Mihailovic

Boris is a writer who has contributed to many magazines and websites over the years, edited a couple of those things as well, and written a few books. But his most important contribution is pissing people off. He feels this is his calling in life and something he takes seriously. He also enjoys whiskey, whisky and the way girls dance on tables. And riding motorcycles. He's pretty keen on that, too.

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