I Am Spare-tire-Cous!
There once was a bicyclist named Ryan Cousineau, Who sometimes posted under the name of
Fabrizio . . .
No . . .
There once was a bicycle-polo player named Zoot Katz, In whose identity-belfry roosted too many
bats . . .
Not quite right . . .
An alias-using Vancouverite not really named Tom Keats Once started a long thread upon proper
bicycle seats . . .
Not much better . . .
There once were some rec.bicycle.tech Benjamins Who hid behind confusing first-name pseudonyms . . .
Hmmm . . . If we were to use all of Ryan's secret identities, we'd need a bigger literary phone-
booth for him to change in than any five-line limerick provides.
This kind of sprawling epic may need cinemascope and a cast of dozens . . .
S P A R E - T I R E - C O U S
The great slave revolt led by Spare-tire-Cous had been quelled. Unfortunately, the victorious
general, Crassus Fogel, was as confused as ever.
"What was this all about?" the dim-witted general inquired hopefully of no one in particular. "Spare
tires? Cous-cous?"
"Helmets!" roared an unusually large, bare-headed, and bloodthirsty soldier, gnashing his teeth. "We
must execute all these captured slaves to teach them never to invade our domain again! They used
fake names in our helmet thread!"
"No, they didn't," said a long-suffering foreign mercenary named Meb. "That was a signature-
line bug."
"Er, it's not a domain, it's a newsgroup," quibbled a rain-caped figure, looking up from his role-
playing games. "I would never perpetrate such an elementary fallacy."
"Perhaps," dithered the general, trying to please everyone, "we could execute just one treacherous
slave? Is there one who is particularly fond of using fake names?"
"Spare-tire-Cous!" shouted the legions of rec.bicycles.tech.
"Groan!" muttered one of the more pun-sensitive slaves, who wore a Dave-T(ee)-shirt.
"They're guilty," opined a Wisconsin bicycle dealer, who changed his mind in the sequel.
"Helmets," added a helpful Colorado Campagnolo dealer, "won't help them if we chop off their heads."
"Are we for or against helmets?" inquired an oddly reasonable berserker from the far North. His
English was more fluent than many of the Romans, but it was hard to understand him because there was
some peanut butter sticking to the roof of his mouth.
"Romans wear helmets with eagles on them," said Crassus Fogel, speaking firmly for the first time,
but confusing plumes with eagles. The general had read about Latin haberdashery somewhere and always
believed everything that he read, but he often got his details hopelessly muddled.
"That's right!" shouted Captain Sheldonus. "Romans wear helmets with eagles on them!"
Everyone, including the slaves, turned to stare.
"What're ya all lookin' at?" demanded Sheldonus belligerently. "Huh?"
"Nothing," murmured Dianne_I-II-III-IV diplomatically, patting Sheldonus on his gleaming head and
furtively counting the CVIII links in his chain mail. "Nothing at all."
"I can't approve of crucifixion," announced Tom Shermanus, who was lying recumbent in decadent
luxury on a litter borne by four slaves. "It glorifies the upright position. And speaking of
position, does anyone know exactly where we are?"
"Oh, do get on with it, you lot!" begged a voice of thunder.
"Who was that?" asked Rick Onanianus, frightened silly by the unseen voice. (His terror made little
difference, seriousness not being the strong suit of the Onanianii--a trait that made their family
stalwart allies of the general.)
"I am Zog the Undeniable--" the deep voice began to explain.
"Enough!" interrupted Crassus Fogel, who had been counting on his fingers. "That's XVII syllables.
Let's crucify Spare-tire-Cous."
As usual, the assembled throng of rec.bicycle.tech both cheered and booed wildly.
"So," the general asked the re-captured slaves in a hearty voice, "which one of you is Spare-tire-
Cous?"
A long silence ensued, broken only by Genus Daniels muttering something at great length, ostensibly
about 504 cable/bike luber. It was unclear whether he was stuttering or suggesting clemency when he
said, "but-but spare spare-tire-cuz."
"Speak up now," Crassus Fogel encouraged the slaves. "Don't be afraid."
"I am Spare-tire-Cous!" lied one of the bolder slaves, whose t-shirt was emblazoned with the
letters PSU.
The general raised a skeptical eyebrow at this attempt to protect the doomed Spare-tire-Cous.
"I am Spare-tire-Cous!" lied another noble slave, mounted on a Canondale Lefty.
"No, you're not," said Crassus Fogel severely, provoked by the transparent impersonation. "You're
Simon Brookus. Get back to work on your suspension."
"I am Spare-tire-Cous!" declared yet another slave, trying to shield his leader's identity and
adding defiantly under his breath, "Or rarely-if-ever-Ryan."
Another slave claimed to be Spare-tire-Cous, then another, and another, and so on until the easily
befuddled general began to waver.
"Are you really all named Spare-tire-Cous?" asked Crassus Fogel dubiously. "I could have sworn that
most of you were named Dave."
"I am Spare-tire-Cous!" pretended the umpteenth slave, whose bicycling jersey flaunted a huge D.
"Mercy!" exclaimed the general, who was not known for the mot juste. "Wherever will we find enough
posts to crucify you all?"
"Wood," pointed out Jim Beamus, "is a strong, resilient material with excellent fatigue qualities
and marked anistropy."
"If only you rode a Moulton," sighed Crassus Fogel wistfully.
The baffled crowd instinctively drew back, fearing a dreadful pun involving melted metal and a
material witness from a luckily lost poem. (They wronged the noble general, but the truth will never
be known.)
Meanwhile, a wooden hatrack Rustled All-t(oo) quickly away to avoid being put to good U's as a
crucifixion post.
"Y-Whay ot-nay use-ay old-ay osts-pay om-fray ec-ray.icycles-bay.ech-tay?" quoth the scholarly
centurion John Daceyus in fluent pig-Latin.
"Damn it, speak English--er, Latin!" snapped the general.
"Why not," repeated Daceyus, "use old posts from rec.bicycles.tech? Google will easily provide us
with plenty of posts on which to crucify as many slaves as necessary."
"Rilliant-Bay!" chortled the general, who wished that he'd thought of the idea first and sought to
ease his envy with a cheap verbal flourish.
"No!" growled the Emperor Jobstus. "As has been mentioned, we should crucify them on ungreased seat
posts . . . DEAD!"
"I hope," fretted Markus Hickey, "that Jobstus doesn't post that awful incident where the poor rider
ended up having anal reconstructive surgery after his seat post broke. . . . errr, I guess he
doesn't have to now."
"He's Spare-tire-Cous!" shouted all the slave-Daves, terrified by the emperor's wrath. They eagerly
pointed out Fabrizio Mazzoleni, who was promptly crucified upon dozens of posts about goatheads.
With their Spare-tire-Cous punctured, the slave-Daves were forced to walk home and never again
rebelled. No effect was noticed on the wearing of helmets.
As the credits rolled, Claire Peterskyus gazed up mournfully while the air slowly hissed out of
Spare-tire-Cous.
"All gone!" wailed Claire. "Zoot, Tom, Fabrizio, Benjamin, Mike--well, maybe not Mike--and Ryan, all
gone! Now," she added bitterly, "I'm the only one left to pay the fan-club dues."
"By the way," said Phil Holmanus, "you're behind with your payments."