BMXXX

Friends don't let friends build drunk.

But, maybe they should.

Airborne

Humpin' to Please

Missed a great opportunity Monday.

The Rags to Riches Adventures of Shaniqua of the Kalahari

Shaniqua grew up in a tiny village on the edge of the vast Kalahari desert. Life was primitive, yet simple. She spent her days gathering roots and pounding them into a starchy pulp which was then baked and served as a nutritious bread-like cake. Beetles and goat milk supplemented the diet of her simple nomadic family who faced little adversity beyond the harsh climate and an occasional squabble with neighboring tribesmen.

Shaniqua was unsatisfied however. She had heard whispers of a place far away where gleaming structures of steel and glass housed people who were whisked around in air-conditioned cars. The inhabitants of this mystical place spent their days counting their vast wealth and sucking the pimentos out of manzanilla olives.

Longing to acquire a ticket out of the African plains, Shaniqua soon found herself involved in the only profitable endeavor available on the Kalahari. To satisfy the hunger of millions of impotent Chinese men she was soon immersed in the lucrative trade of illegal rhinoceros horn. She was a midnight poacher who could down a rhino with poison darts fashioned from the bones of dehydrated hyenas, hack off the valuable horn while the unfortunate beast was in its death throes, and still make it back to the village in time for morning coffee.

With the proceeds from her nefarious activities Shaniqua was soon able to secure the means of her deliverance from a traveling Bedouin spice trader in the form of a fine Royal Enfield scrambler.

So, as father and little brother are left holding the family camel and wishing her a tearful adieu, Shaniqua motors off to a world where people spend their days in meaningless repetition. Walking in hard concrete circles with their heads bowed down to tiny lighted screens and totalitarian governments, gathering dog shit in Ziploc bags. A brand new life of strip malls, deadlines, reality TV, traffic jams, fast food and corn gluten.

Hope she finds something to cover her ample bosoms before she gets to Nairobi, the nights can be long and cold.

Color Me Green

As a former Military Policeman, I salute my brother soldier from a bygone era. When I served in the seventies, we were told we were all one color....GREEN!
As one can plainly see by the picture below I was a handsome, dashing, un-colored young soldier willing to defend my country from the forces of evil. I was the worst MP ever, the only guy I ever arrested was a drunk who jumped me while I was on gate duty. As my tour was drawing to a close, stationed in Louisiana and riding my Kawi around post with reckless abandon, my superiors tried to get me to re-enlist with the promise of Motorcycle Duty.
I was wise to them though. Yeah, there was a sweet old Panhead dripping oil in the motor pool, but "Motorcycle Duty" consisted of riding the Bike about two miles, parking it, and performing traffic control during the rush hours, then riding it back and parking it. When my tour was up I jumped on my Kaw and headed for California.

By the way, top speed on that Jeep was 45 mph. Not a real good pursuit vehicle.

Down by the Old Mill Stream

"Not the new, but the old......"

Snatched Pebbles and Pulled Groins

In my younger days I could cradle a V-twin between my arms and place it inside a frame as a Shaolin Priest burns dragons and tigers into the flesh of his forearms in a ritual act of Kung Fu manhood.

But now, old enough to remember the bare-footed Chinaman who finally tamed the Wild West in the mid Seventies with vicious strikes and whirling leg sweeps, a bag of herbs and a wooden flute, my strength has diminished slightly. I now use a series of cables, pulleys and an old boat winch to hoist the V-twin into the much-maligned frame.

Looks like things should bolt-up pretty well.

The fact that a man, so filled with transcendental self-awareness and inner peace, should be found dead in a Motel 6 laundry room under a pile of dirty towels and pillow cases from autoerotic self -asphyxiation, causes Master Po and The Buddha to openly weep.

Beer Run

Yesterday, a cold front moved through Small Town Amërïkä. Refreshing north winds brought higher barometric pressure and clear skies. Perfect weather for baling hay and drinking beer. Every small town has a liquor store within walking distance of the surrounding trailer parks so the bitter residents who’ve lost their licenses can make their way on foot to purchase the necessary vodka and Slim Jims. In Jerkwater we have Lenny’s Liquors. A second generation establishment where the friendly gal behind the register happily bags up your purchase while calling you handsome.


The rooms above the store house a brothel by night and an illegal kidney transplant center by day. All made possible with payments made to the local constable. From the open windows a combination of stale perfume, cigarette smoke and chloroform wafts down to the street and mingles with abject desperation and discarded pizza crusts.

Last time I documented my trip to this establishment I cooked the tender skin of my right calf on the scorching hot tail pipe of my ratty big twin. Still bearing the scars from that incident, I took the Intergalactic Wart Hog with its catalyst exhaust covers, liquid cooling and plastic mud guards. I transported my precious cargo safely to the shop fridge in my aluminum top case. A true dual-sport adventure.

Framed

Soon I'll be bolting up the 1200 cc boat anchor to position the kickstand. The Kraft Tech frame is OK but all constructed with 1 1/4 inch tubing which makes it strong but heavy. Worse still, things like seat brackets to spring mounts won't fit, making for a lot of grinding. The fender brackets had to be cut down and repositioned. Mostly though I just drink beer and look at it, into the wee hours of my weekend evenings, while visions of clubmans and flat red rattle can tins dance in my drug-addled head. The frame is taking on a lovely burgundy hue and wouldn't it be a shame to powder coat over such beautiful, organic oxidation? I sprung for a PM rear caliper. Too much money and way too shiny, but looks pretty cool.

I also contemplate telling some customers to go to hell, and taking off on the Intergalactic Wart Hog to parts unknown.

Risks and Benefits of Restrictive Dress Codes in Small Town Amërïkä

The grocery store in Jerkwater Junction has a strict code of ethics and conduct which doesn’t extend to out-of -date milk and the shelf life of meats and meat byproducts. A malodorous place with small, narrow aisles and a surly, nine-fingered butcher who spews out profanity from behind his blood-strewn counter as he wields a vicious meat cleaver with total autonomy.

I recently made my monthly sojourn into this establishment to stock up on Fig Newtons and Nyquil. I saw the sign pictured above and registered a complaint with the clerk, as I often go shirtless and barefoot while grocery shopping. I paid for my purchase and explained to her, as clearly as I could, that the human body is a beautiful thing and should be displayed and celebrated.

As we spoke, I was soon aware that she knew my thoughts before I did. She stood there dissecting my words with a straight razor, her unblinking eyes bored holes into my soul as she lazily leafed through the latest edition of The National Enquirer. Without a word, she pointed outside to a group of misshapen women standing on the cracked and broken sidewalks of Hometown Amërïkä, and shot me an expression which made me feel small and insignificant and utterly defeated.

Now I understand fully why bikinis are not allowed in the Jerkwater Junction grocery store, and from here forward, will try to remember my shirt and shoes.

Let's Run 'em

<p dir=ltr>Great image from yesteryear as Mikey's about to get "his doors blowed off," by a Limey bike.

Chicks in the Kitchen

Another case of poor housekeeping.

Always put away the groceries before getting freaky with the whip.

Labor Day

Nobody knows labor like The Octomom. She drops babies like a bred cur dog whelps pups under the front porch of an Arkansas trailer. Her hyperactive reproductive system melts condoms under a withering assault of enzymes and destructive juices and spits out diaphragms like an angry ATM machine.

Meanwhile. Labor Day means summer is drawing to a close and I reflected upon the Holiday weekend as I sat observing life in a convenience store parking lot. The patrons were largely disenchanted lesbians and failed divorce lawyers picking up antacids and last minute items for cookouts, as Amërïkä slowly fades into oblivion, and prepares for another round of peacekeeping in the Middle East through the use of nerve gas, cruise missiles and bluster.

Through the open side door of a sun-faded mini-van I spied a legless dwarf perched upon the back seat like a grim-faced gargoyle. Strapped in to avoid contact with the public, she peered out at the world with bitter, gap-toothed ignorance. Her heaving breasts surged over the top of her cheap cotton fabric like sourdough bread rising in a yeast-laden oven.

I drove home sullen and dispirited, eating a Slim Jim^® and slurping a fast-melting slushy.