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This idea was not my own. I want to say that right from the start. On Lania's Biker Mice Supporter Page, she created, along with other Fan Club members, a clever list of signs that you'd watched too much Biker Mice. This is just my list. Make sure you check at the original, and enjoy!
You Know You Like Biker Mice Too Much When...
Immediately upon seeing the title of this page, you quote Vinnie and shout, "Too much is never enough!"
Fishing becomes less a sport and more a form of revenge.
You feel a desperate need to move to Chicago.
When you saw the end of "Once Upon a Time On Mars", you sighed.
When you see someone out riding a motorcycle late at night in Chicago, it makes you smile (yeah, this was a personal experience).
You love Wrigley Field, despite your vehement hatred of baseball.
You’ve been searching your radio for "The Sweet Georgie Brown" show, but to no avail.
When you find a page that sells Biker Mice videos, you get up out of your chair and dance. Badly.
You devote a small corner of your room to the pagan worship of Tom Tataranowicz (I’ve got a virgin sacrifice lined up for next Friday. Any volunteers?).
You watch "90210" and pray that Ian Ziering laughs like Vinnie at least once during the episode.
You watch "The Tick" in the vain hope that Rob Paulsen will do his "Throttle voice."
You wish YOU had buck teeth, too.
You despise shirts, no matter what the weather.
You have a dream about a new season of Biker Mice, then become thoroughly depressed when you wake up and realize that it doesn’t exist.
You’ve bookmarked Bikermice.com.
You see the fish swimming in your mother’s aquarium and wonder, Are we next?
When your house becomes infested with vermin, you purposely hide the mousetraps and lock your cat on the porch.
You want to kill the Power Rangers—not just because of their existence, but because they pushed Biker Mice out of the #1 spot and spelled the series’ doom.
You bought Biker Mice slippers for five-year olds, despite the fact that there’s no way in Hell they’ll ever fit your own feet.
Your nightly prayers include the phrase, "Please please please bring back Biker Mice."
You deeply regret the fact that human beings don’t have tails.
You judge any potential romantic interest by the characters in the series ("Hmmm. Well, she has Charley’s wit…" "Well, he’s no Throttle, but if I can just get him into a pair of leather pants…")
Whenever you go to visit relatives, you frantically page through the TV Guide, as "they might get it here."
You can name every episode you taped over (and you could kick yourself for taping over "My Cheese is Quick" so you could watch something else later).
Ladies: your ideal man is seven feet tall, has an overbite, lots of facial hair, neck hair, chest hair, back hair, etc.
You credit the series with your score on the verbal section of the SAT (I know I do).
You quote Modo’s mother.
You’re willing to take Stan Lee and Marvel Comics hostage to force them to bring back Biker Mice (I’m willing to negotiate, but if they don’t hurry, then Andy Kubert’s head is going through a wall!).
You watch Akira and think to yourself, "Now if these guys had done the animation…"
You switch to contacts just so you can wear sunglasses like Throttle’s.
The Hair Club for Men hangs up on you because of your repeated inquiries about transplants on your arms, legs, back, etc.
Despite the fact that the art was lacking, the three issues of Biker Mice from Mars you found in comic book form are the most prized in your entire collection.
When you have children, you plan to name one of them Vincent, then try to convince your signifigant other that Throttle and Modo are good names, too. If nothing else, then you demand that your next child will be named Charley.
As long as it’s a girl.
You reason that the only reason Martian mice were never discovered by humans is a coverup effort by the Martian government (destroying the sattelites; forcing them down into uninhabited areas, etc.).
You dyed a yellow strip down your scalp so you could look like Rimfire.
You’re going to build a monument to the noble young men and women lost during the Plutarkian War (as soon as your government funding comes through).
Instead of screaming on roller coasters, you make a point of shouting, "AOOOOOOOW!" as you go down the first big hill.
You see Mickey as a corruptive influence.
You’re working to get that law on beastiality repealed before we make first contact with Martian mice *grin* (Come to think of it, you could make a really sick joke out of the "first contact" part, too).
You named your bicycle "Lil’ Darlin."
You define "quality time" as sixteen hours of nonstop Biker Mice episodes (family is so highly overrated).
You want a war to break out soon so that you too can be a Freedom Fighter.
You fill in the Species blank on DG’s guestbook with something other than "human."
You wouldn’t mind being abducted if it was Martian mice instead of those damn grays (even if they still did the anal-probing thing).
You become frustrated that your word processor has very few synonyms for "cheese."
You check out books on motorcycles, cheeses, and firearms to hunt up possible character names for your next FanFic.
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