15 October 2004

They Suck

Hey, not everyone digs the Teutuls.

"American Chopper" may well be the biggest thing The Discovery Channel ever spoon fed the unintelligentsia, but it represents what most pisses myself, and several others I know, completely off about the current state of motorcycling. Wanna be know-nothings and the dipshits who idiolize them.

I've ranted, raved, and threatened violent insurrection over this bullshit prime time soap opera and it's thespian cast of mental midgets. But now I've had it. When their mechanical ineptitude and familial drama spill over into my shop; that's it. I'll say my piece and let the rest of the world decide.

Don't go into someone else's shop and ask them, "Should that axle go in so easy? I saw them drive them in on American Chopper. I think you've got something wrong there ..."

Oh, motherfucker. Get away from the tool box lest ye be smitten with the ball pein.

These assbags are not bike builders. In fact they're not bikers. They are, at best, bike decorators. At worst they are a pox on the nation and destined for history's dustbin as a footnote no more impressive or nostalgic than mulletts and moon pies.

Okay, I'm done. For now. All I really want is an awareness of the fact not everyone who rides a motorsickle, much less a harley, finds inspiration and comraderie with the drama queens of Orange County.

Personally, I'd know better than to perch my puckered ass on one of their trailer worthy contraptions. Just a heads up: axle shafts should never - repeat NEVER - be hammered into place. From there the mechanical and aesthetic faux pas run amuck. Like the ulcers in my lacerated innards these fucktards do nothing but piss me off. This medical annoyance, and the copious profanities I've screamed at the tube while these asshats fumble through their toolbox, has led my wife to make yet another of her great suggestions; "Hey, dumbass, why don't you change the channel."

Well fuck. Why didn't I think of that.

In the meantime, through the sheer good will of friends and riding compadres, my beleagured Road King is back amongst the living. I am well aware the bike is, at least in a literal sense, simply an inatimate object. However, the unsettled feeling of my injured two wheeled instrument of death strapped sadly on the lift was more than I could bare over the past few weeks. The gooned up shoulder and crippling foot/ankle dilemna has been less of an issue than my bike's predicament.

The FLH's resurrection was an excellent illustration of karmic retribution and the motorcycle community's network of friends. Two days following my spark-throwing display of balance gone awry local hero and master painter Scott was laughing at my hobbling gait and assuring me, "I have a fender, we can match that paint ..." And he did. Perfectly. It looks better than August of 98 when I left the Heritage at Forman's and rode off on this blue and silver beast. New paint is the perky nipple on the perfect tit of life. You can't help but touch and rub it. Stare at it. Contemplate indecent acts with it ... The paint is beyond perfect. I dig the shit out of it. Had people not been staring I may have consumated a new relationship with the fender there on the steel bench. Hell, I still might ...

Tool man and local nappy-headed legend of the strip club circuit Mac Danny had the exact cast wheels I'd wanted so long to replace the spokes and tubes consumed by a carnivorous curb. They run smoother and track straighter than did my 46,000 mile spokes. And I am now tube free. Despite the fact I'd have been on flat tires had I been running tubeless tires the night I mangled the chrome spoked rims, I prefer the tubeless qualities where conventional flats are concerned. Come on, Badlands, I've got a plug kit and a can of fix-a-flat for your teacherous miles.

Ebay provided a great deal. A big thank you to everyone with cash to spend on chrome add-ons and the will to auction stock goodies. I'd buy you a beer, but I spent the money of freight. And hey, leave me some fucking feedback, shiteyes!

Forman HD had most of what wasn't available cheaper.

Prairie Cycles tolerated my vitriolic stream of hate speech during the demounting and remounting of infamous rubber. Motorsickle tires ... 30 minutes of hell at the hands of Devil Dunlop. I'd rather jiz mop in a nudie booth than make a living mounting tires. Shit ...

So today I'll load the old lady and make East with friends for the October Hootenanny in Sparks America. While it is too late to promote the run this year, their June run is well worth a road trip. Tony and his crew know how to put on a party. http://sparksamerica.com

3 Comments:

Blogger Doug K. said...

Darn...now I gotta take back the OCC "Mikey" t-shirt I bought you for Christmas.

8:44 PM  
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