Wanna hear a biker joke?

One hundred and seventy bikers were arrested in Waco, Texas.

Of those arrested, 30 were fat guys nicknamed “Tiny.”

Also arrested were a couple “Gypsies,” several “Ray-Rays,” a “Buzzard,” a number of guys nicknamed “Porky,” “Killer,” “Spider,” and on an odd note, one guy whose nickname is “Beyonce.”

Police say sorting out the men’s nicknames is hard enough, but most of the bikers were by bailed out by extremely skinny white women called “Dallas Alice.”

No better than African-American street gangs, biker gangs, like all criminal organizations, attempt to wrap their essential worthlessness in a wide variety of clothing, symbols, handshakes and other juvenile garbage that becomes unattractive to real men when we turn 18, after which our life becomes serious in ways Tiny and the boys don’t understand.

Oh, and check the gang names. The Cossacks. The Bandidos. Is there are more laughable grasp for freedom and masculinity than those names? If I start a gang, I’m gonna call it “The Realtors.” Man, those guys are tough! Out of the house at 5 a.m., showing houses, negotiating, slowly working their way into an early stress-induced grave.

Or maybe I’ll call it, “The Guys Who Have Five Kids with One Woman And They’re Married To Her.” Talk about tough guys, working, braiding their daughters’ hair when Mom isn’t there, working all day and driving to soccer game after soccer game after soccer game. No bikes for this bunch. Minivans. That’s how we roll, bro!

Meanwhile, comparisons to “white riots” and “black riots” are unavoidable in this matter, particularly if you’re stupid or a bigot, words that, come to think of it, are synonyms.

Questions. Did a police officer shoot an unarmed biker in the back? Did a police officer choke a biker BEFORE the riot started?

I’ve lived in working-class communities all my life and some of us become bikers the way some of us join churches that encourage dancing during the services and some of us become hugely enamored of karaoke.

We’ve all worked with “Tommy the Biker,” who toils on the loading dock and, other than the sleeveless denim jacket with “Baby Killers” across the back, is a pretty nice guy, although unlikely to move into management or even indoors. He’ll do anything you ask him to, mostly because he has no choice. His retirement plan is Social Security, and he makes $12 an hour, so don’t ask for too much.

He’s harmless. As are most of the bikers I’ve known and the ones that drift into criminality would do so if their “club” was centered around the workshop of the Honda Prius.

And that’s really all it is, criminality centered around a motorcycle, a thing, a manufactured item anyone can buy, but, if want to be somebody and you don’t really know how, you can buy a motorcycle, buy the clothes and, vroom, you’re a biker.

Tiny and the boys, they got suckered.

Marc Munroe Dion is a nationally syndicated columnist. Dion’s book of his best 2014 columns, “Marc Dion: Volume I” is available for Nook and Kindle.