Dear Cycles & More…


… you suck great, big, sweaty donkey testicles.

Your selection is sparse, your prices unreasonable, and your service department is so glacially slow and customer-unfriendly that one wonders if your mechanics and counter help aren’t moonlighting from the DMV.

I am at a loss to explain why anyone owning a Suzuki or Kawasaki motorcyle in southwest Louisiana would bring it to your festering scab of a dealership for service or repair. My only guess is that every bike in that weeks-long queue in your shop belongs to a first-time customer who didn’t know any better.

Well, this one knows better now. I will not darken your door again, and it is my sincere hope that every single time someone Googles the name of your pathetic little excuse for a motorcycle dealership, that this post comes up as the #1 hit.

For those of you who wonder how many ways a company can alienate a customer, let’s run down Cycles & More’s list of offenses:

  • Requires customers to schedule appointments for service or repair two weeks in advance.
  • Upon receipt of the bike needing repair, informs the customer that the minimum shop turnaround time is 5-7 business days. This is for replacing a stock rear tire, a turn signal relay, and full fluids and brake service, folks. It takes ’em a week.
  • Upon inquiry by customer if his bike is ready, informs said customer that not only is his bike not ready, they haven’t even looked at it. Nor have they ordered the parts they know they will need. And oh, by the way, it’ll take another 5-7 days.
  • After nearly three weeks gathering dust behind the bikes of yet more dissatisfied customers, inform the bike owner that they can’t really tell him when they’ll get around to it.
  • Offers neither apology nor explanation for their total lack of regard for good customer service.

What you have failed to do in three weeks, a pair of semi-literate high school shop students could have done in four days.

When your dealership folds – and it surely will, the way you’re going – I hope I see all of you knuckle-dragging, mouth-breathing, monosynaptic, apathetic fucktard wastes of protoplasm working the counter at Mickey D’s.

Of course, then it might take a friggin’ week to get my burger and fries.