The other day there was this lady on Judge Mathis (I prefer to watch Judge Mathis over the morning “news ” shows because, unlike Good Morning America, Judge Mathis is not nurturing a culture of fear who thinks we’re all going to die of everything – I mean, we are all going to die – even me – but probably not of swine flu, bad spinach, or filing my taxes late – not that I need to justify why I was watching court tv, okay?) who was suing this guy for money he owed her for a motorcycle.
But this lady kept saying motorsicle. As in, popsicle. As in, In the summertime, many children like to cool off with a frozen cherry-flavored chopper on a stick.
It was almost as annoying as Wilford Brimley’s Die-uh-beet-us commercial. And it had been her motorsicle. As in, she rode it. She was a Motorsicle Mama. Who couldn’t say motorcycle. If she was in my biker gang, I would’ve kicked her out. In fact, I never would have let her in in the first place. She would have been all, “Tea and crumpets, I would very much like to join your motorsicle club. Hm hm hm hm.” She didn’t actually have a British accent, or motorsicle might have been acceptable.
She probably never even rode it. She didn’t even have a neck tattoo. You have to have a neck tattoo or a name like Butch to be a biker. I’m pretty sure her name wasn’t Butch. If it was, she probably pronounced it “Bootch”.