Thursday, January 31, 2013
Of course they should.
For the reasonable price of just ninety five cents, this magazine will answer the age old philosophical question we've all asked, "What must life be like for an Easy-Loving Cootch Dancer?"
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Just another run-of-the-mill rigid XL, but I'm really diggin' the stance of this bike and sort of what I'm aiming for.
It's a cold Friday but the afternoon sun shines favorably through yonder windows.
Did some fab work, heavy drinking and monkey wrenching.
By late evening had a round oil tank mounted and fender semi-mocked up. Rear tire came in, should have a roller by the end of the week.
Monday, January 28, 2013
Friday, January 25, 2013
The Genie Bra itself is a poorly designed piece of latex promising to provide a comfortable means of breast support, but like all products unavailable in stores, it is the classic “pig in a poke.” This “Exclusive T.V. Offer” must be ordered by phone without benefit of the consumer actually examining the product. Predictably it receives poor reviews from its many disappointed costumers. Its commercial success lies in the brilliance in its advertising and the gullible nature of an increasingly doltish and poorly educated American public.
I always stop what I’m doing and stare, mesmerized at the television screen for the ad’s duration, when the British announcer begins her pitch, speaking rapidly in order to excite and confuse. Subliminal images flash across the screen of Queen Elizabeth’s aged breasts swinging freely like two wrinkled mud flaps and a herd suicidal milk goats leap into the swirling waters of the River Thames.
Then the unfortunate, lonely and sex-starved MILF struggles with a conventional bra, contorting suggestively as her milky white skin is chafed and self-fondled, the scene dripping with soft-porn erotica. Order in the next twenty minutes and receive a free set of extra-support, milk-cow-rubber-double cups for that younger, perkier look, enhanced by hard liquor and Vaseline.
Big-boned, Double D Soul Sister fights mightily for respect while rolls of jelly and folded back fat find no sanctuary beneath thinly stretched and sweaty latex.
Order RIGHT NOW! DON’T WAIT!!
Just sixty dollars, plus $19.95 shipping and handling and a half dozen Genie Bras will be shipped directly to your door in a plain brown Gangsta’ Wrapper. Available in white, skin-tone and Shirley Temple black.
Thus the trap set. Across the country thousands of matronly, sexually frustrated women, tired of constrictive and ill-fitting brassieres and wanting desperately to believe in the promised “younger, perkier breasts,” reach for their credit cards and dial the toll-free number.
I personally love the Genie Bra commercial.
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Drag the fork-locked Softail
up the surreptitious trailer ramp
quick, under cover of darkness
chain-tethered dog howls its disapproval
Drunken altercations in dimly lit parking lots
missed court dates, public defenders
Thirty days in county jail
clear the head and heal the bruises
Trailer park meth lab simmers in the summer heat,
cooking up a bubbling enthusiasm
chicken bone sculptures
decorate the dirty
underbelly of the sagging double wide.
Running hard through city streets
straight pipes echo off deserted factory walls
cocaine, whiskey and road rash
hanging flesh on fractured bone
spitting broken teeth through bleeding lips
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
This pistol-packing mamma exudes attitude as she stares vacantly into the camera lens with a menacing, snub nosed dignity. You mess with her and you mess with a faded leather valise full of piano-wire garrotes, heavy lead-pipe nightsticks and lip-gloss death stars. She’s got copper bore-bristles and gunpowder under her chipped and faded fingernail polish and a copious trunk full of pineapple hand grenades and Thompson automatics. She wears spike-heeled dagger pumps over bootleg nylon panty-hose and her bladeless wipers squeak a frantic, ineffectual dance across a scratched and dirty windshield.
I dig women who pack heat, they are dignified and self-assured and have a deft and graceful confidence in the bedroom, combining a mesmerizing, gentle touch followed by hard, punishing, hump-grinding hip bruises.
Monday, January 21, 2013
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Thursday, January 17, 2013
That’s me, in an extremely gay shirt, fresh out of The United States Army in front of my parent‘s home in Los Angeles,(jealous brother standing in the background.)
I bought my first “big bike,” in Indianapolis when I got back from serving overseas. The bike was a 1979 KZ 750 and cost $1995.00 brand new in March of ’79. It was a twin and not as fast as the parallel fours,(the KZ 650 and the wicked fast KZ 900) but had plenty of torque. If you shined up that flat, vinyl seat with Armor All, got on board and hit the throttle, you nearly slid off the back of the bike.
I left in March of '79, on my shiny new sled for my next duty station, Ft. Polk Louisiana, to serve out my remaining six months. The temperature was in the thirties, but being young and dumb I took off with no windshield, a three-quarter helmet and woefully inadequate clothes. I nearly froze to death, but managed to continue by following about fifteen feet behind semi-trucks to break the wind. Really dangerous but again, young and dumb. The weather finally warmed a little when I got to Tennessee, but then rained pretty much the rest of the way. I arrived at Ft. Polk tired and wet but in one piece.
The bike was my only means of transportation for about four years. I got out of the service and rode it all over the country, including two trips to the west coast, sleeping under rest stop picnic tables and on the side of rural back roads. I wrecked it several times including a night time, road rash-inducing slide along the pavement, an eight-foot drunken drop into a ditch and finally going over the rear of a Buick in Oklahoma City when the driver pulled out in front of me.
I don’t remember how many miles I put on it, but the air-cooled Ricer went without a problem the whole time with only valve adjustments, new forks and front rim, (after the Buick incident) and countless chains, sprockets and tires.
I sold it, along with my soul, freedom and sanity, when I got married. I often search the local papers and Craigslist trying to find it, hoping to be reunited.
Maybe some day.
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
I love weird stuff, it's makes life somewhat interesting.
I think this is actual advertising for some kind of greasy hair care product. I wish I wasn't bald so I could lovingly apply this product, organic egg whites and fabric softener to my hair.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Monday, January 14, 2013
Friday, January 11, 2013
Bath salts gained a bad reputation after last summer’s report of a deranged man shot by Miami police while making a meal out of some homeless dude’s face. Now I'm not opposed to consensual cannibalism but I was always taught better than to misuse a cleaning product.
What many don’t realize is that bath salts have been around for over a century and have many legitimate uses. Take for example dear departed Grandmother Hermit. She was a strict Baptist and a member of the Steamfitter’s Union Local 353. Grandmother was righteous and upright, a woman of impeccable virtue. She would bristle at the telling of lies and tremble with rage at the utterance of profanity. Woe be to the child who dared use vulgarity in her presence. I can still recall the horror of being bent roughly over the Kitchen Sink Altar as a sacrificial offering to the God who abhors filthy language. The bitter taste of dirty hand soap forcibly shoved past my unclean lips in order to cleanse the palate of my iniquity. The gagging and coughing as I gasped for breath between sharp rebukes and numbing blows to the side of my head from Grandmother's swift and terrible hand of righteousness. Make no mistake, Grandma was the last person to use a product in any way other than how the Lord had intended.
Despite her charm, virtue and rock-solid strength, Grandmother had an Achilles heel along with bunions and Plantar fasciitis. To ease her aching feet she would spend her evenings sitting in the living room listening to The Lone Ranger on the radio with a bottle of Johnny Walker Red and a copy of Popular Mechanics across her lap, soaking her sore feet in a tub of warm water laced with Epsom Salts. The salts would soothe her aching bunions and cause pleasurable electrical sensations in her ankles and nipples.
That’s not Grandma in the picture, I just like the bubbles.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
After some exhaustive research, I find that this lady is Yvette Dare, a thirties-forties era stripper who trained her macaw to disrobe her. She is a member of The Burlesque Hall of Fame and joins the ranks of Gypsy Rose Lee, Mae West and Yvonne De Carlo, (Lilly Munster, whom I've always had the hots for since pre-puberty).
The fact that there is a Burlesque Hall of Fame is encouraging, but knowing that an innovative entertainer like this chick has been replaced by Lady Gaga and Kim Kardashian is more proof that life was far better before television, fuel injection and the internet.
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
I’m diggin’ this fiery, red-headed stepchild. I long to have her verbally abuse me, in a thick Irish brogue filled with expletives I don’t understand, while I cower in the corner nibbling generic graham crackers and admiring her baby blue socks.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Friday night I started piecing together the mottled and tragic history of the donor bike which had come into my possession. It had every conceivable chrome doo-dad that Harley Davidson ever devised installed on it. I removed them one by one, stacking them on the work bench, destined for the swap meet circuit. After pulling the gas tank and removing the petcock a foul stream of rust, old gas and what looked like a school of minnows and a crayfish spilled out onto the gravel lot behind the Monastery. Removed the air cleaner and found the filter plugged with vegetation. Perplexing.
I chugged some bourbon and NyQuil, scratched my head and pondered the history of this wretched orphan. I bought the bike on a used car lot, the guy knew only that it had a rebuilt title and was sold through an insurance company. The bike didn't look like it had ever been wrecked, so I was never sure what the story was.
The night wore on, the weed and kerosene burned and the bottle slowly drained. While dining on crackers and canned Dollar Store sardines, I looked down through the haze and noticed the inscription on the oil cap. It read, Weiblers Harley-Davidson Bettendorf Iowa. I vaguely remembered something about Bettendorf Iowa in the news. After a quick Google search, I had my eureka moment. There was a huge flood in Bettendorf in 2008. That's why this bike was sold by the insurance company, it had been drowned like a rat!
Sardines, Saltines, Kerosene and Jim Beam:
Food to nourish the soul and open the mind to life's mysteries.
Monday, January 7, 2013
Evel Knievel in 1967 on a barely modified xr750 wearing an open-faced helmet.
Evel was the consumate badass, self-promoter and safety engineer. Just check out that bale of straw gaurding against injury should he strike that steel post.
I salute you Evel. R.I.P. bro.
Friday, January 4, 2013
Janet was determined not to follow the path her Mother had taken. Born out of wedlock, Janet was witness to Mother’s endless parade of lovers who grew progressively more sleazy and less wealthy in direct proportion to her advancing age and diminishing beauty. Janet’s own romantic life was a confusing jumble of hurried, backseat sex and promised phone calls that never came. The men who substituted for lovers in Janet’s life smelled of stale cigarettes and false bravado, rap music and chrome rims, court dates and ankle bracelets. The faint whiff of body odor breaching cheap deodorant.
Harvey was a frequent customer at the Quik-Stop where Janet worked. He was middle-aged and overweight and his pockmarked face was testament to some past battle with acne. He was shy and clumsy, but drove a new Audi which indicated steady employment and relative financial success. Janet secretly fantasized about the things she could buy with Harvey’s money and when he began his awkward flirtation Janet flirted back. After just a couple of dates he asked for her hand in marriage and young Janet pounced like a she-lion on a wounded zebra.
Janet’s newfound prosperity was nice, but as those who marry for money soon find out, it comes with a heavy price. The long weeks spent pretending. The tedious visits with his mother. The tacky wallpaper. The suppressed giggles from her friends. His propensity for cross-dressing. But, by far the worst, was Harvey’s foul breath blowing heavily into her face as he pressed his flabby bulk against her small, young frame during coitus. It was more excruciating than any poverty and sent her into soul-crushing despair.
When she finally informed Harvey that she was leaving it was as if the gates of a hellish prison had been flung wide open.
The crushing news, coupled with Janet’s unchecked exuberance, caused Harvey to promptly drown himself in the closest body of water, much to the horror of the miniature deep sea diver, the bubble-blowing clam and the assembled tropical fish.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
According to the International Brotherhood of Hermits we’re to eat twelve to eighteen pounds of green, leafy vegetables every week. Easily achieved in the temperate days of spring, summer and fall.
In the frigid winter months this becomes a challenge, but despite single-digit temperatures, a bountiful yield is possible with the help of The Lord, a south-facing raised bed and the miracle of modern plexiglass.
This arrangement provides enough succulent kale to keep my mind sharp and my stools regular.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Big New Years celebration at The Hermit Compound last night. A little too much Jack Daniels and bath salts. Things got a little out of hand as they often will, but what the hell.
Still don't know how I got those boots on over my swollen ankles............