Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourself.
Choose your future.
Choose life.
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Now edited for the bikers
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"Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose a bike. Choose your kit. Choose a fucking big motor, choose alloy, carbon, titanium, trick suspension and paintjob. Choose good brakes, low weight, and full-comp' insurance. Choose you're line, choose your apex, choose your braking marker. Choose your number. Choose your friends. Choose leahers and throw-over luggage. Choose a two-piece suit on hp in a range of Italian designs... Choose DIY and wondering how to put it all back together on a Saturday evening. Choose carving, scratchin', third gear stand-up wheelies. Sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing F1 or stuffing up the inside in MotoGP. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourself... making you sell the bike for a family wagon.
Choose your future.
Choose life... choose a bike."
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