Happy New Year!!

Get responsibly hammered tonight.

Monday Mornin' Badass

Once, at a gas stop, I checked out a dude with a withered leg filling up his Electra Glide. He hobbled around with a cane he kept strapped to the back of his bike. When he mounted up he used a bungee chord to strap his leg to the floorboard so it wouldn't flop around and get caught under his wheel and shit.

Today's Badass is cool 'cause he doesn't roll with some lifelike, high-tech, stainless steel, prosthetic pussy leg with wires and cables and shit hooked up to his nerve endings. Dude goes full Captain Hook with an old skool broomstick strapped to his stump.

I salute you Badass. You and your closet full of never-used left shoes. You are a pragmatic, peg-legged purveyor of pugnacity. Keep ridin' bro.

Hell Ride

If I can scrounge up the parts, maybe a bike like this. A sleek machine replete with a host of ghoulish accoutrements. Goat horn clip-ons, twin coach turn signals and eye socket LED headlight. I lust for the rider as well. She, of the ceremonial Third Reich headgear, firm buttocks and dagger-backed spinal column.
If one were to pull up behind this rig, with its seductive operator, the view would be superb. He would follow, mesmerized, all the way to the Fatherland or to the very gates of Hell.

Donor

Found a victim at a used car lot of ill repute. Buy here, pay here. Out of State salvaged title, tweaked front end. Thirty two-hundred cash, as is, don’t ask, don’t tell, twenty-one hundred showing on the clock, title says “exempt,” buy here, pay here and don’t tell your mother. Dragged it home on the truck, opened it up and let the vomit spill out on to the melting snow. Factory 1200, runs loud, runs strong.

I hate it.

I hate its factory sameness. I hate its chromium conformity. I must kill it. I must pierce its armored underbelly and spill its life’s blood on the cold, frozen ground. I must dismember it. No labor of love, Sawzall and cutting torch, hack job, Bondo and bail bondsmen, rust and brake fluid. Whiskey and kerosene, Aderall and late nights, Led Zeppelin and weed smoke, Nyquil and Krylon.

I must mingle the blood of my skinned knuckles with its greasy dry-rotted tire pressure.

Aesthetics

Two beautiful things,entirely unrelated, appealing to the Classic and Romantic as described by Robert Pirsig. Both would require a great deal of care to be properly ridden.

Dug out

Disheveled, dehydrated but dug out.
Looking for a cheap sporty, got a couple in my sights.

The Shining

Twelve inches of windswept snow coming across acres of prairie deposit some moderate to heavy drifts around the compound. I've plenty rice, beans, firewood and whiskey, so let it snow.

The threat of madness is always lurking when the hours of tedium are coupled with cold temperatures and isolation, but a warm fire and a bottle of Wild Turkey should be enough to stave of any Jack Nicholsonian cabin fever.

Tonight I drink, if I make it, tomorrow I dig out!

Raw Beauty

Excellent example of an understated chop.

Level 5 Badass

The Pawnee were truly badass. They hunted twelve hundred pound bison from the backs of half-wild horses with primitive, stone-tipped arrows. The Pawnee were a matriarchal society and therefore more ruthless than neighboring tribes. Stoic yet dogmatic, they often enhanced their sexual encounters with sarcastic witticism, bull whips and rubber fishing boots. They suffered in their thin-skinned hovels during drought and high winds, but in good times they danced under the scalps of vanquished invaders, blood dripping from their chins, and cooking pots filled with European gall bladders, pasta and roasted mule meat.


This Pawnee warrior gazes serenely into the distance with a peace pipe in one hand and a Colt revolver in the other, depicting our constant struggle between good and evil.

Love and Hate
Life and Death
God and Devil
Lysol and Vomit

Man’s insoluble duality

Here Comes Santa Clause...

...riding down Santa Clause Lane.

He must have dropped his sack.And I don't have to tell you, that shit hurts.

Mustard and Biscuits

With the thermometer dropping and the wind raging across the Midwest, thoughts turn to the warmth of the shop, with its whiskey and kerosene. The slingblade is hung on its hook with care, poised to mete out its savage justice.

Skillet and Leroy

Nobody fucks with Skillet and Leroy. No, not the comedy team from the sixties (below). These cats are out tearin’ up St. Louis on a pair of fine scooters. Skillet’s Knuck is pretty sweet but aint’ nobody gonna’ catch Leroy when he’s ballin’ the jack on his badass HRD (Vincent) motorcycle. When these dudes hit the streets, looking’ for soul food and a place to eat anything can happen. After some chitlins and black-eyed peas they can get serious about bird doggin’ the chicks down at the juke joint.

Knucklin' Under

End of Days

The Angel of Death stands poised to reap his gruesome harvest. He'd been fattening up the masses with hydrogenated corn syrup, gluten and trans fats, weakening them with tobacco and hard liquor, and now he's ready. The pathetic legions had been cupping their hands under the Fountain of Youth but the acid burns, they raise their empty, skeletal fingers to scorched and anguished lips, last days, their thirst unquenched. The Reaper watches, his jaws opening and closing, death spasms, gnashing teeth. The young woman heavy with child scrounging through the last vestiges of civilisation, the panicked flight, the unpaid utility bills, a bowl of oatmeal left too long on the stove. The Reaper laughs at mankind's futility.....

See you tomorrow??????

Slap it on

Pasted my ZON^® sticker from The Zen of Neato on the Interstellar Galaxy Cruiser's pannier today. It adds a touch of class and hides some of the dings and bug guts.

'Twas the Night Before Christmas

Santa parked his sleigh in front of the liquor store and purchased a bottle of whiskey, a little Christmas Spirit to stave off the cold on his long, arduous mission.. The reindeer waited impatiently in the parking lot, stomping their feet and snorting, filled with pent-up anxiety and ready to get on with their international odyssey.
The libations hit the fat man hard and somewhere over the Arctic Circle he was starting to feel the mounting pressure of his annual responsibility. As the bottle emptied his resentment grew. Why, thought he, do I have to perform this charade year after year? The little bastards, the recipients were more often naughty than nice and the whole world knew it. What the world didn’t know is that the jolly fellow of eighteenth century poems is a myth. In reality Santa is a wild-eyed alcoholic with a penchant for profanity and fondling young boys as they sat upon his knee in the festive department store display.
Somewhere in North America he stopped in a small town and bought another bottle. He staggered out to his sleigh, and in a profanity-laced tirade, coaxed his reindeer to a nearby rooftop. He slid drunkenly down the chimney and landed clumsily in the fireplace, bruising his ribs and cursing under his breath. He greedily ate the cookies left there on the table, while the children were nestled all snug in their beds, and disdainfully dumped the glass of milk on the carpet with a perverse chuckle. The old fat man then stumbled down the hall and peered into the bedroom of the sleeping housewife, clutching his sack and drooling like the sadistic, overweight voyeur he was. Before leaving, he unzipped and urinated on the Christmas tree in a final, drunken act of desecration. He stumbled out the door, the front of his pants wet with urine, and staggered his way to a quiet alley.
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So, there he lies, like a gin-addled transient, bedecked in a grimy red suit trimmed with the skins of exploited vermin and stinking of liver disease. His filthy, louse-ridden beard stained with vomit and egg nog.

Hilbilly Hybrid

I was scrolling through some of my old travel photos when I came across this one taken at a gas station south of Rapid City South Dakota.. The gentleman you see here built this masterful work of art using the front end of a Ford Escort and an 80’s era Kawasaki. He hailed from Alabama or Georgia, which was a total shock, and said that he and his lovely bride had been riding for three days on their way to the Sturgis Rally.
My first wife had a Ford Escort and it was an absolute piece of shit. I had to work on it constantly just so she could get to work and provide for me. It never occurred to me however, to cut it in half and bolt the frame of an old Kawi to it. But that’s why this dude is an accomplished, innovative engineer and I’m not. He is the Leonardo DiVinci of our time. It’s as if Henry Ford and Hiro Mitsubishi got together with some bath salts and a jug of moonshine to produce a state of the art motor vehicle which would make Ducati and Bentley envious.
He was happy to talk to me about his creation and said he had several more back home but, “Figured he’d bring the purdiest one out to Sturgis.” His wife, (in the pink) wasn’t quite as enthusiastic about riding this three-wheeled death trap two thousand miles and the stress was showing. The back of her neck was sunburned and tense and knotted like a bundle of rattlesnake knuckles. The tendons in her forearms were tough and sinewy , all steel cables and rusted pulleys. As I approached her from behind her central nervous system was clearly visible through the back of her sweat-stained shirt.
I was fascinated and found myself falling hopelessly in love, so I quickly dismissed myself and hurried into the gas station for a couple of Slim Jims and a Diet Pepsi.

Level 5 Badass

Gotta' love a guy on a poorly-suspended, heavy FL getting any air at all.
Well done curly-haired old dude who's probably dead now!

Eight Maids a Milking

Actually just four, but who’s counting. I do count eight active nipples all pointed skyward, eight delightful globes of comfort and joy.
Cassandra on the left is a bit high-maintenance and when feeling a little droopy needs some support. Next we have Natasha, tall and exotic, the pride of Belarus. She likes fifties Hollywood Classics, warm puppies and Soviet-era rocket launchers. Heather is next, small and compact, she exemplifies the principle of quality over quantity. Finally, slightly apart from the others and my own personal favorite, is Monique, her raven hair cascading lazily over her milky mounds is enough to roast your chestnuts and launch your mistletoe.

This lineup of economical, small-breasted zombies are on my Christmas list. If I haven’t been too terribly naughty and Santa brings me this fine group of unflappable flappers it would keep me busy right on through the Holiday season and on into the New Year.

Yummy Yami

Beautiful in its stark, austere minimalism.

How Much is that Monkey in the Window?

....... the one with the insulated ski jacket.

Little Cheetah looks out forlornly at the passing shoppers, contemplating his destiny.

Restricted and smothered, a mere shadow of his former self.

Once, swinging recklessly through the trees high above the jungle floor, careless and freewheeling.

Now a pitiful spectacle to be gawked at by mindless half-witted sheep looking for bargains amongst the shrink-wrapped tedium of strip mall purgatory.

Snug and warm in his insulated vesture, sheltered and well-fed, yet yearning to be free.

We are that monkey in the window, constricted by the trappings of modern life, with its false security and conformity, yet singularly miserable and without purpose.

Dogfight

Bangin' footpegs

Splendor in the Grass

Well-executed Evo, builder unknown.

Not near as splendorful:
My first Sporty project. Sold it too cheap to support a bad habit.
(failed marriages)

Cautionary Tale

The street signs wept openly, their mournful cries audible above the din of his motor. His bike moved through the streets propelled by unseen forces, transcending space and time while furtive eyes peered out from behind hidden places. He glanced at his rearview mirror, fascinated by the multi-colored contrail streaming out behind him for many miles. He became distracted, gazing upward at the rooftop workers, broken men in yellow raincoats furiously nailing strips of bleeding flesh over well-worn rat holes, stemming the rain flow in the scorching sun. His looked back at the road ahead just in time to see a matronly lesbian crossing the street in front of him, pushing a shopping cart filled with North Korean toasters and Communist dogma, a basket of exotic fruit balanced precariously upon her head. Dave braked hard, but it was too late. He laid the shovel down. The stench of burning rubber and the cries of orphaned children filled the air that morning as his bike skidded along the pavement, sliding with great force under a parked UPS truck. His head hit something hard and unforgiving. Then, everything went black.........

madness.

Never ride under the influence.......of madness.

Why?

What is reality?
What is Truth?
Why is there something rather than nothing?
Why does a toasted bagel get so much hotter than a piece of rye bread?

As a troubled soul might cry out into the darkness to an unseen deity, Why would a benevolent God allow so much suffering? In a quiet moment of reflection, this is the question an anguished, bathroom stall coat hook asks.

Kiss of Death

 

 

Little Timmy's hideous appearance was always a source of embarrassment for Ernest and Mary and would surely keep them from achieving the social status they coveted. So after making the difficult decision, and a kiss for luck, they prepare to push him out of the third floor window.

Brown Sugar

"I bet your momma was a tent show queen...."

I'm diggin' the sixties attitude exuding from these chicks.




You can almost feel the humidity and hear, Marvin Gay wafting through an open window from some distant AM radio.

 

Bouncing Betty

Betty was a troubled child and, at the age of six shredded her Raggedy Ann doll with the lawnmower. Shortly after her tenth birthday Betty began wearing boys clothing and carrying brass knuckles. She would roam the streets at night stealing car batteries and hubcaps and selling them to local service stations. By the time she was twelve she was drinking heavily and suspected of burning down the neighbor’s garage. Betty was suspended several times in Junior High for chewing tobacco and smoking cigarettes, and was finally expelled for exposing herself in the cafeteria.

When WW II broke out she joined the Women’s Army Corp. Her military career was cut short however, when she was involved in an incident at a popular off-post night club where witnesses say she savagely beat two male soldiers with a pool cue. She was discharged and drifted aimlessly for a time becoming addicted to fortified wine and nasal spray, finally finding work in the shipyards as a welder, constructing the decks of aircraft carriers. She worked tirelessly, always with a cigar clenched tightly in her teeth, and seldom took a break. She saved her money and purchased a motorcycle.

After The War she fell in with a local motorcycle club and followed the Motorcycle Rodeo Circuit. Betty always ran the events braless, with a straight razor in her pocket and a .38 revolver stuffed down the front of her panties. She was the picture of concentration as she hustled her heavy FL over the tire course as if it were nothing more than rumble strips, taking on all challengers and dominating the competition. She retired undefeated, but with a severe kidney disorder.

She is now in her late eighties, living with her Dominican gardener Humberto and a three-legged cocker spaniel named Paul. She spends her days on her front porch, huffing paint out of a Ziploc bag and shooting birds off the telephone wire in front of her rural Arkansas home with a high powered rifle.

Destination

There was a time when I owned nothing.
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I could pack all my shit in a duffel bag and head down the road, and I did. Hitch- hiking across the continent when it wasn't considered crazy. Sleeping under bridges. Feeling the bite of poverty, cold wind on my face. Embracing loneliness. Kerouac and Moriarty.
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Now I'm impoverished by bank accounts and property, mutual funds, material possessions and responsibility, electric bills and taxes.
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Shackles!
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The road calls like a siren song.
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There was a time when I owned nothing.
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There was a time when I was rich.

Young Love

Nothing says true love like menthol cigarettes, a willing partner and broken beer bottles.

Abuelita Rides Again

Don't let Martha's kind face and white hair fool you. Once she hoists her arthritic leg over that saddle she'll rip out of the nursing home parking lot like Satan on bath salts. Out on the Interstate she'll free herself from the restraints of clothing and allow her bronzed breasts to flap in the breeze like the ears of a happy basset hound.

If a tree falls in the forest.....

Far away, men with large egos and small minds squander diminishing treasure. Meanwhile the feeble, late-fall sun shines weakly through dirty windows and winter’s chill tightens its grip. I sit in solitude, marking the passage of time by the ticking of the clock and the gathering pile of dog hairs on the well-worn floors of this dismal shack. Like the philosopher who pondered the silence or sound of a tree falling in an uninhabited forest, I face an existential dilemma. If one posts thoughts on an unread blog, I wonder, is he not simply talking to himself? Must sweep floor.

Badass Meter Reading = 89

This dude scores a solid 89 on the 1-100 Badass Meter. Not sure what he’s riding, but it damn sure ain’t a motocross bike and he’s getting some serious air flying above the hot desert sand in a t-shirt and sunglasses. After a day of hard riding over sage grass and rocks he comes home and spits the sand out of his gritted teeth, pulls the prickly pear thorns from his Dunlops and sprays the jackrabbit guts from his frame rails with a garden hose, knowing he’s a Badass.

Sweet

Nice one-lunger

So many followers so little time.

Thanks W.P. Now if I can figure this shit out....

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