Nigerian Princess

Sometimes I fancy myself a Nigerian Princess sitting upon a throne of jackal skeletons and wearing a flowing robe of stone-washed Cape buffalo hides. There'd be be eleven pigmy house servants hand-feeding me seedless grapes and a pair of matched hyenas tethered to my bedpost. Balanced upon my regal head would be a five-gallon bucket of latex house paint and a pasta strainer, because my posture would be impeccable and my nipples in a constant state of stimulated readiness.
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Sometimes, on the other hand, I just sit alone in the dark, drinking warm beer, and wondering if I left my phone in the truck.

Hump Day Honey

Everyone needs a little happy, gratuitous rump to get through the week.



Well, almost everyone.

Tender Moments in a Plastic Pool

From a now semi-defunct site I infrequently frequented <---------click here


At a party, long ago, somewhere in an impoverished part of my imagination, just east of suburban Omaha Nebraska I dropped some powerful acid with an obese, but thoughtful, Native American woman who looked just like the woman pictured above, except much fatter and uglier. We shared several bottles of strawberry wine while waiting for the drugs to take effect. We parted company, but later I went outside to piss and found her squatted in the prone position in plastic kiddie pool with about two inches of stagnant rainwater sloshing lazily on the bottom wearing nothing but a pair of yellow, rubber boots and a look of deep confusion. Not wishing to alarm her, I went back into the house and found a bottle of Dawn dish soap and a longhandled scrub brush, the kind often used to wash busses and large trucks. I began scrubbing her shoulders while applying long green stripes of the dish soap, creating a fine lather which pooled in the dirty water about her knees and elbows. She would voluntarily raise her arms, first right then left, so I could scrub the stubble ‘neath her underarms, as she moaned with pleasure.
I asked her to flip over, which she did obediently, soapy water sloshing over the sides of the pool like the Orca exhibit at Sea World. She lay there, looking up at me with those dark, pleading eyes, black and deep as puddled motor oil. Out front on the darkening road cars sped past, distressed drivers returning home from their toil, unaware.
I continued to work her torso with gentle, scrubbing motions, her large brown breasts swaying, nipples glistening. I deftly scrubbed her round generous belly in gentle, circular motions, moving slowly down to her cavernous gash. She had a protruding set of vaginal lips, the color and consistency of calf liver, which pulsated regularly to the rhythm of her beating heart. At the slightest touch of the brush bristles, these protrusions would suddenly retract like a pair of frightened eels, emerging again, however tentatively, only after several minutes of persuasive coaxing.
At this point I went behind the bushes and vomited a purple stream of strawberry wine into some freshly placed mulch, held my hands to my head and wept.

Très

Shiloh's thoughts slip across the sky like a flight of migratory birds in a delivery truck. When spring beckons, with bird calls and the greening banks of babbling brooks, a young girl's fancy soon turns to corn starch and Nyquil 'neath the warmth of satin sheets in the darkened recesses of apartment number three.

Ankle Biter

I have no idea what the hell is going on here.

The hanging oven mitts will never tell. An oven mitt never reveals its secrets.

Laundry Day

If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen.......





.......blaaahhhhh!

..........out of the frying pan and into the dreyer.

Kitchen Chick

Cluttered countertop, exposed plumbing and poor cabinetry but it's still Tea Time!

Coffee Break

Caffeine is always better with a little sweetner.

Kitchen Chick

Nothing beats the boundless beauty of lightly-breaded bouncing butt-cheeks........baby.

Veterans Day

I don't know the full story on this hottie, but I salute her and all those who've left parts of themselves in some hot, dusty shithole far from home, so the rest of us can remain relatively comfortable as we cling to our diminishing freedoms.

Witch in the Kitchen

Not sure if she's in the kitchen. She can't seem to get off the ground, so she obviously has the wrong kind of broom. Not really feelin' this one. No cat or cauldron. I'm not even sure which witch is which.

It's Halloween, so someone's gobblin' that goblin.

Chick in the Kitchen

Shredded f@%kin' Wheat.

A balanced diet should contain a proper mix of carbohydrates, fats, protein and fiber.

Chicks in the Kitchen

                                                                          Certified!

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.

Down by the Old Mill Stream

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

Chicks in the Kitchen

Cabinet doors wide open, crappy geometric tile, dirt smudged near door pulls, no visible pop tarts and worst of all, that pussy shouldn't be on the countertop.


                     No Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval for you!

Chicks in the Kitchen

Ain't no trash in my trailer. And yeah, it's a kitchen 'cause I can see an oven in there.

My, she fills that doorway nicely.

Paperback Classic

 

Behind every tempestuous life stands a wanton woman.

 

 

Kay might give you a fling, but looking through keyholes is a violation of privacy. You filthy pervert.

Click for------------>>>>>>>More info about a great American author.

Kind of interesting.

GP Practice Day

Got to Bruce's place in the early hours after gliding across the rural back roads, stoked on Adderall^® anticipation and caffeine, atop the trusty Galaxy Traveler.





I intended to photograph some of Bruce's collection of bikes. He has a number of vintage Guzzis, a pretty sweet Shovelhead, some two-stroke Kawi triples and a couple of Ducati's in various states of repair. But they were all under tarps, bed sheets and shit. Some day we'll roll them out of his packed garage and take some pics. He has an obsession for cheap transportation, so he also has a motley assemblage of misfit scooters. He opted to ride his $700.00 (only bike he ever bought new) Chinese scooter, much to my chagrin.
 On the road I hung back and acted like I wasn't with him.





We parked on the backstretch of the famed two and a half mile oval. I've had some good times at this place over the past twenty-five years, most of which I can't remember. The second turn grandstands can be seen in the distance. All four corners of The Speedway are blind corners, couldn't imagine taking them at two-hundred plus mph as the Indy Cars do.
You could spend a whole day just checking out the thousands of bikes of the patrons, without even going in to the infield where the real stuff is.





The infield pagoda. Why the Oriental motif, no one knows. This is the fourth since The Speedway's inception. The first one, a flimsy wooden structure burnt down in 1925 when Cosmo Kramer dropped a lit cigar in a waste paper basket.
The very first race run on the Speedway in 1909 was actually a motorcycle race. It was a two lap affair (5 miles) an Indian motorcycle won the day.




Funky V-rod sidecar.



There was a Sportster spec race run on the GP course while we were there. Got to sit in the pits, get pleasantly drunk on $6.00 a can beer, and talk to drivers and mechanics.


All in all a pretty cool day. I used to attend the Indy 500 in the eighties and nineties. Saw the NASCAR boys run once, but it was a snooze fest. The cars looked like they were crawling after years of watching 220 mph on the straightaways for all those years. The GP course is laid out in the infield, using only a short stretch of the main straightaway. The bikes have to come out of a tight turn, roar down the straight and hit another tight turn way sooner than the Indy Cars do, and one rider managed to clock 209 mph! It's awesome to live close to one of the few venues in The States. Watching these bikes is incredible when you can sit close to the track and get a real feel for their speed and power. The riders are badass too.

GP Bound

I'm buggin' off work tomorrow, Guzzi-loving Bruce and I are headed down to The Speedway for MotoGP practice day. Hot sun, hot babes, hot bikes. A time for White Trash and Euro Trash to mingle, get drunk, get funky and smoke cigarettes. Get to ride on the famed oval (for a short stretch) real fast and set our kickstands on Indy tarmac.