The Epic Adventures of Mudflap the Wonderdog

This noble beast is my confidant and faithful assistant. As you can see he is the product of hours of intense training and impeccable breeding. Though some may question his ancestry, I feel certain that his champion bloodlines date back to ancient Roman times where his brave ancestors hunted wild stags, fought pitched battles with lion and bear in front of cheering throngs in dusty amphitheatres and fiercely guarded the palaces of Kings, Queens and Noblemen.

He is a deep thinker and prone to periods of introspection and self-doubt. He is sensitive and emotional and fearful of loud noises, vacuum cleaners and a future devoid of classical music and road kill. Trustworthy and faithful to a fault, he’ll never hesitate to take on the difficult tasks such as cleaning up the trash or methodically licking his genitals.

A true American Hero.

Hump Day Honey

I think I'm in love again.

Truth

We Have Clearance, Clarence

But, just barely.

Finally realized I was fooling myself about the eight-cell lithium working on this bike. Didn't want to get the whole thing together and have the smaller battery be insufficient to start the bike. So, I scrapped the old battery box I'd made and built one for the twelve-cell model, slightly bigger, more crowded, but should work.

Three weekends of sporadic, intoxicated work to fab up a battery box.

Glad I'm in no hurry.

Monday Mornin' Badass

Tracy was one bad Momma. Thundering past a group of jaw-dropped dorks in crew cuts, bedecked in her bomber jacket and too-cool for school, cheap sunglasses, Tank-Shifting Tracy leaves a cloud of dust, a whiff of French perfume and a trail of broken hearts wherever she rides. With a toxic combination of low self-esteem and high blood pressure she was the foot-clutching, chain-smoking, rubber-burning, easy-loving queen of the open road.
According to legend, Tracy could light up a Camel at seventy miles an hour and never get smoke in her eyes while she ran over livestock, household pets and beatniks, crushing their bodies beneath the wheels of her hopped-up 74, leaving a trail of blood and gore in her wake.

Fifties Era Soft Porn

This must be an elaborate tale, along with Nictzin Dyalhis, it took four other collaborators to produce this epic.

After school I would come home, get real stoned and watch the old Popeye cartoons. I was always fascinated and horrified by the Sea Hag.

Beware

Be very afraid.

Confessions of a Seafaring Nyquil Abuser

I sometime see mice crawling across the floor where there are no mice
and smoke drifting along walls of painted flowers.

I feel the hot breath of wounded bison at my feet
and grieve for their unborn offspring.



Frequent urination has left me confused and ambivalent.

Someone's in the Kitchen with...

There is something about a near-naked woman in a kitchen doing her chores in a domestic setting that I find very satisfying.....

I think it's the boobs.

Rented Love

Some years ago I spent a bittersweet night with a lactating Panamanian hooker in her tiny rented room. We had lustful, sweaty sex illuminated by the blinking neon sign hanging on the cantina across the street. Her newborn child lay swaddled in a banana crate, stirring occasionally to cough through a restricted wind pipe. Later we lay together, the linen sheets sticking to our tangled bodies, as the sound of street vendors and traffic drifted up from the sidewalk below. A warm bay breeze came through the open window and played gently with the thin curtains.
I woke at dawn, bloodshot eyes and dehydrated, and watched the ceiling fan rotate lazily above. Across the room my temporal lover suckled the child, her lilting Spanish soft and reassuring. I rose and dressed quickly then gave her a perfunctory nod good bye as I opened the door to leave. She looked at me with pleading eyes, the infant still fastened to her breast. I made my exit and caught the bus home.

Monday Mornin' Badass

I believe this is Aussie stunt rider and all-around badass Robbie Madison.

I plan to reenact this stunt by hoisting my Super glide to the top of the tallest structure at the Hermit Compound Complex and ride it straight down into a twenty yard dumpster full of discarded shipping cartons and construction debris.

If that doesn't work, I plan to get tanked up on whiskey and bath salts and jump the White River in a late model Chrysler mini-van.

Happy Friday

Winter is winding down, wheels are rising up.

Hornets are Eating My Brain

They're still hungry.

Sport Bike Sidecar

Pretty cool.

I rode my son's sport bike once. Scared the shit out of me.

Hump Day Honey

It's hard to comment while drooling uncontrolably on my keyboard.

Rollin' All Nite

Got me a roller. Looks good with a twenty-one inch front. But, with a big Avon on the rear I can't fit a lead battery behind the seat post. Don't want to use a round tank/battery box combos, (yeech!!) I'm going to try a lithium 8 cell, according to the manufacturer's specs it should (maybe) start the 1200.

Using very limited fabrication skills and a block of wood as a dummy battery, I put a battery box, (basket) together between shots, beers and sardines.

As the night wore on I came to several conclusions:

1. I shouldn't breathe kerosene fumes and weld in my underwear.

2. My dog will greedily eat those nasty sardine vertebrae and dropped crackers.

3. When armed only with a knife, 'tis better to gently cajole an olive out of the jar as opposed to a wanton stabbing motion.

4. If I were a woman I would like to be called Cynthia.

Monday Mornin' Badass

Luke Wallwalker

Let The (Centrifugal) Force be with You

Random Oddities

Don't know about you, but when I get naked and huff paint, I like to look at weird shit .

Rats Rule!

I met the rider of this awesome sled somewhere outside of Rapid City shortly before Sturgis Bike Week. Daytime temperatures were 110 F in South Dakota that year so we talked for a while over coffee and Slim Jims at &;00 am, before it got too damn hot.
Rat Bikes are cool.
A brand new FLHCU Custom Ultra Electra Glide, with its GPS, AM , FM, XM, CD, iPod-ready stereo and lumbar air-ride saddle is like a gleaming glass and chrome office building. Shiny, comfortable and functional, but without a soul.
Rat Bikes are more like a graffiti-covered, inner-city, ghetto warehouse. Ugly, rusted and dangerous, oozing a mysterious and sadistic history of botched drug deals, spent 9mm shells and sex crimes.

The bike was an oil-spewing, greenhouse-gas-emitting shovel which featured a melted plastic rat on the rear cylinder air scoop, an auxiliary fuel cell and rubber dildo grips. The rider looked like the quintessential biker, pushing sixty, who was traveling with some younger dude from Denmark riding a purple Evo Softail who spoke almost no English. An unevenly-yoked pair if there ever was!

Best part was, I asked him where he was from, and he just laughed.

Ain't No Cure for the Big Brother, Wintertime Blues

I’m in my office looking at a pile of crap from the IRS and insurance companies and wondering why. Why?
I hate this shit. This choking bureaucracy tightening around my neck.
I eke out an existence crawling around in the mud like an animal in the sweltering heat, sweat pouring from my troubled pores, and heat stroke headaches. I hibernate like a bridge troll in winter eating beans and stale bread from grocery store dumpsters.
I am not a free man.
We’re slaves to a bloated, hapless entity somewhere far away where powerful autocrats grope and fondle a bunch of corporate fat cats. They live like kings while we’re dolled out a pittance and fed a gruel of soylent-green and high fructose corn syrup. The ever-growing number of the oppressed, the unemployed, and the disenfranchised are kept fat, dumb and happy with dribbled hush money, lest they try to break free from the sheep pen.
And they tell us we are free.
Our children are packed into rolling sardine cans and hustled away to laboratories where they are probed and eviscerated by Thought Police Fascists, rewarded for conformity with gold stars and juice cartons and punished for free thinking with Zoloft, Ritalin and mind-numbing dogma. And, always the looming threat of a swift and merciless collectivist ice-pick thrust into the frontal lobe.
And they tell us we are free.

February, with its lingering winter and depression is the longest month. It’s my own damn fault. I bought the lie. I swallowed the pop culture swill while sitting in front of TV sets, being brow-beaten in Public School Classrooms and taught to fear, while hunkered down in basement fall-out shelters.

“… give your possessions to the poor…and follow me.”

I don't need no damn vacation, with its cell phones and deadlines, I need trash my Social Security Card, burn the number the Government has tatooed across my forehead and break away!

Oh, to load a change of socks, a jug of wine and a loaf of stale bread into my saddle bags, jump across the back fence and hit The Road, forever.....

Hump Day Honey

Janis Joplin

Screw the Power Company

If you want something done right, you'd better do it yourself.

Monday Mornin' Badass

Don't know if this guy recovered or not, but either way it's pretty badass.

Happy Groundhog Day

Though their weather predicting ability has been greatly exaggerated, a fat young groundhog, fed on succulent clover, is very good fare. I find its delicate, gluten-free flesh superior to that of rabbit, squirrel and even some of the widely touted, wild-caught marsupial species.

Don’t overindulge, and remember; if you plan to celebrate with wine or spirits, appoint a designated driver. Groundhog Day weekend is the second deadliest Holiday on our Nation's highways and byways.

"Doo, Doo, Doo, Lookin' Out My Backdoor..."

Summertime screen door slams
rusty spring twangs its off key song
green headed fly bounces off the wire

beads of sweat run down pilfered ice box bottle
back porch guzzle quenches thirst,
cool beer drips and trickles between hot breasts

am radio hangs from a rusty nail,
Lefty Frizzell sings his tinny refrain from inside the kitchen
distant signal from coat hanger antennae



outhouse doors and hookworm
polio and fried chicken
shotgun shells and washboards
greasy fingers groping under threadbare cotton dress