Wednesday, April 10, 2013

“The Devils Ride”–as real as professional wrestling


I find myself up late on Monday nights watching stupid stuff on TV. The Discovery Channel’s “The Devils Ride” is about the stupidest stuff out there.

I’ve watched several episodes of this show, which supposedly chronicles the to-ings and fro-ings of the Laffing (sic) Devils and the Sinister Mob Syndicate – two probably fictitious motorcycle clubs warring with each other in and around San Diego.

The casis belli is rather murky. As best as I can determine, a leader of the Laffing Devils (I can’t type that name without laffing), left or was expelled from the club and went off to form the oddly named Sinister Mob Syndicate, or Sin Mob for short. This was apparently an unpardonable affront to his former brothers and a reason for these guys who have more in common with each other than with anyone else in the world to hate each other.

Unlike “Sons of Anarchy,” TDR constantly hints at violence, but never delivers. The supposed blood feud never escalates beyond shoving matches between fat guys.

Monday night, we were expected to believe that some of the Sin Mob were using a mobile home somewhere out in the country to move big bundles of unspecified contraband which presumably generated lots of money for the club.

So when the Sin Mob “prez”  gave the Devils’ “prez” 24 hours for the Devils to surrender their “cuts” (leather vests with club insignia), a Devil who had joined the Sin Mob to spy on them, led the Devils to the mobile home which they torched, proclaiming they had put the Sin Mob out of business.

Huh? It’s never made clear how that is supposed to work, but then this show requires lots of suspension of disbelief.

Never mind that the camera crew has been following the spy back and forth for weeks, making it obvious to everyone (except the Sin Mob) what he was doing.

Considering that neither club seems able to field more than a dozen members at any one time, you would think there would be plenty of room in San Diego for them to coexist without ever running into each other.

And the insults, real and imagined, that fly back and forth call to mind a pack of bitchy seventh-grade girls.

For the life of me, I can’t figure out what there is about these clubs that makes these guys think they have something to fight over.

It’s as ludicrous as a rumble between chapters of the BMW Motorcycle Owners of America and the Gold Wing Road Riders Association.

Mortal combat among fat old men is more likely to result in strokes and heart attacks than heroic victory.

To anyone who rides a motorcycle, “The Laffing Devils” is unintentionally hysterically funny.

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