People Tend To Suck

And not in that good way. More in the "Why is that assbag wasting my oxygen" kind of way ...

People like this mental midget Oklahoma State Senator Bernest Cain. A wizard of wimp politics, Sen. Cain decided the answer to young people's head injuries and accidents was not rider education or responsible behavior but a complete ban on anyone under the age of 12 on any sort of off-road ATV. Four wheelers, three wheelers, motorcycles. All of it. Brilliant!

In his infinite knowledge of the subject Sen. Cain has deemed The Nanny State and not the time-honored tradition of parenting all-knowing when it comes to what is best for our children. And of course with 12 being a magic number (it is the square root of 144 and the number which makes up a dozen, after all) any child reaching the magic age will automatically be safer and more experienced on a motorized off road device. Regardless their past experience and practice. Of course ... Yes ... This makes perfect sense. Why wouldn't it?

Those first rides, the cow trails and shale pits where we all learned to ride as our paternal figures, or the neighbor kid who had a mini bike, watched nervously. The all day trail rides and scrambles. The excitement of looking forward to every given Sunday's dirt pursuits. Sweaty heads in an old helmet, and the contented sleep on the way home. Basic principles of mechanical maintenance. The responsibility and self-esteem gained aboard the two wheeled fun machines. All of that - immediately illegal if this self-aggrandizing safety nazi had his way.

Idiot politicians.

Thankfully the AMA, amongst others, was quick to get on the bill and its language was amended, eliminating the provision criminalizing what is - for all intents and purposes - a rite of passage for lucky grade schoolers nationwide. My own little Kenievel offered this sage advice when the bill's contents were summarized for him, "Guess we'll just have to ride at the farm where they can't see us."

I can't decide if I'm raising a small anarchist, a student of civil disobedience, or a budding criminal. Likely a combination of all three; like his old man.

What personally offends my ever-so-delicate sensibilities is the fact there is a living being so completely bereft of practical knowledge or common sense a complete and total ban on the operation of ATVs and motorcycles for those under age 12 seems sensible. I'll bet the Grandkids can't wait for this prick to visit.

"Merry Christmas, Grandpa! What did you bring us?!!"
"ANSI-approved glasses, safety scissors, and the collected writings of Ralph Nader - on tape!"
What a jackass ...

This type of thinking is exactly the reason those dues paid to your motorcycle rights organization of choice are monies well spent. My 7-year-old protege is an AMA member following his turtle-like showing at the Arenacross Nationals in Guthrie. I maintain my ABATE membership with NW69 out of Woodward for more than the novelty of their chapter numeration.

Personally, I don't want a helmet. Okay, let me rephrase that: I do not wish to be TOLD to wear a helmet. There have been times the helmet wasn't so bad ... rain and hail come to mind.

But I've ranted and frothed at the mouth enough on the helmet gig. That horse has been beat to death, ravaged by the necrozoophiliacs, slaughtered for meat by roaming tribesmen, boiled for glue, and had its hide tanned and used as a floor rug. To revisit this argument would do nothing more than anger people I both respect and enjoy making uncomfortable during polite conversation.

The real problem is the nanny state. Clueless fatassed politicians who know what is best for us. Vigilance, like herpes, is forever. Thankfully MRO's keep watch on these pigs and let us know when they've overstepped their bounds. A full-time job.

There seems to be a watchdog organization for all varied interests. My dues to the NRA get me a magazine and a healthy fear of Hillary, Brady, et al. I suppose those interested in the culinary arts have watchdogs policing the legislative branch for ridiculous regs relating to toques.

Sadly there is no cure for stupidity. In fact, less-than-brilliant thinking is no longer demeaned and belittled in this country. It's celebrated. How else can you explain the popularity of rap music and Oprah's book club?

"The whole fucking world's against us, dude, I swear to God."
-Jay

On the opposite side of the spectrum, running counter to asshat politicos and combating the nanny state's stormtroopers, Spring is coming and good shit is on the way. For example; our friend Brice picked up a new motorsickle a couple Saturdays ago. Killer weather, despite the sprinkles, allowed many of us to accompany our favorite airport security nightmare to Tulsa so we could heckle and annoy him during an otherwise joyous moment. Street Bob, Denim Black. I want to wax it, but it seems they say no. Very groovy motorsickle. And the only thing better than a new motorsickle is seeing Brice up on two wheels again. The icing on the cake will be his adorable bride on the back. Mmmm ... Tara ...

To properly christen the new bike we (predictably) headed straight south of Route 66 HD to Hooters for wings and libations. Sunshine and passing storms made for the perfect recipe of "Let's sit this out and see where the storms go." By the time the coast was clear it became apparent we are never allowed back to the Tulsa Hooters. The yuppie chick with the great rack was unimpressed with my vernacular, wings give you gas, Werther is a pirate, and they should stock more bottled beer. Or perhaps it's best they didn't.

Route 66 HD is fast-becoming my new favorite big-ass Harley dealer. I developed a case of the ass at these mega-dealer boutiques with their clueless hair-gelled salesgeeks and parts people who've never turned a wrench. If I want that shit I'll go to AutoZone where the pockmarked punk behind the counter says, "A 3/8 bolt ... What's it go on? I need a year model for my menu-driven parts lookup." AutoZone is the best illustration for why kids need to pull their fucking pants up, turn their hats around, and develop a callous or two before attempting to sell me anything.

But Route 66 in Tulsa ... nice place. Even beyond the fact they donated a leather jacket for the Brice Benefit gig, I've yet to have a shitty experience there. And I can have a shitty experience in a strip club. Myers-Duren, for example; they pretty much punked out on the Brice Benefit. Nada, nothing, not even a shitty t-shirt from their shitty sale rack. So guess who DOESN'T get any of our parts, bauble, or new wholegoods dollars ... The free market economy is so freaking cool.

First time I stumbled into 66 I was with the MonkeyBoy. Seeing the huge showroom and complete stock of chrome goodies, motorclothes crap, and official licensed whoreabilia I fully expected to be treated like shit ala Harley World in OKC. Needing back room parts I was stuck behind some no-riding poser and his apparent life-partner while they annoyed the hell out of the counter help. "Well ... what's this one look like?" At which point the beleaguered counter rat would tread back to the shelves, bring out the chrome accessory clearly illustrated in the catalog, and have the coiffed and shod pole-smoker say, "No ... let's look at this one ..."

I think he was a politician.

Anyway, three or four times of this had me ready to scream and Jake ready to stab people. About this time the counter guy shoves their boxes and catalog out of the way, looks at us and says very politely, "Can I help you guys?"

The poser bitches might have been offended, but they hadn't spent a dime and were about to cost the place sales, present and future. The parts man was astute and helpful. Got us our goodies with no mistakes, knew exactly what we needed, and had us out the door while the thorns in his side were still trying to decide whether to Ride To Live or Live To Ride. My bet is they live to pack fudge in a trailer.

For those reasons it was good to see Brice get a nice not-so-shiny brand new motorsickle in a dealership that doesn't suck.

I just hope we haven't ruined his chances at hot wings in T-Town. Man, that manager was really ready for us to leave. We've only seen that look a couple thousand times.

Rest of the day was severely perfect. Afternoon ride down scenic 51. Rest stop and fellowship at George's in Stillsville. Then rolling into Enid for Vinny Big Noggan at Crappy's. Education professionals all assed up. Hot girl-on-girl action. JMFB. More cute chicks than you can shake wood at. It don't get much better than that.

Sunday's convalescence was interrupted by the visitation of Kansas-Based Goons on a Panhead retrieval mission. As soon as familiar faces hit the living room it was readily apparent I would be accomplishing nothing on Sunday either.

That wasn't completely true, however. We did manage to scout a new stop for the RatRun, a prospect was severely hazed, and I was able to secure my position as 'Most Annoying Dick Ever' in the Grand Saloon. We'll see if I'm ever allowed back.

Regardless there's just all kinds of good shit to look forward to:

Motorsickle Shows in OKC.

Kelsey's Run, which is not only for a good purpose but one thing a person can do to lessen the urge to find the people responsible for her death and beat them viciously. To death. These kinds of things always remind me of Big Rick, our hoodlum friend who was first described to me as, "A guy whose killed more people than cancer." Once when up for another stint in the big house he said, "Ahh, it ain't that bad. I'll get hang out and beat the shit out of some pedophiles."

Even amongst the hardest of criminals doing harm to a child is a special and evil offense worthy of severe punishment. Power to the vigilantes.

Waynoka Snake Hunt, for which Miss MereBear has shed 200 pounds of useless husband to attend. And for which we will arrange kid care for a prospect ...

Warm weather, time change, extra daylight, and the "Promoting The RatRun" bulletproof excuse to ride.

Damn I love motorsickles ...

With local weather being unseasonably beautiful as of late the streets of my brain-dead hometown have been flat-out packed with motorsickles. Bikes which have not seen the light of day in years are being dusted off, kicked to life, and tagged. Hopefully they're also being insured ...

Love to see that. More motorcycles means less cars. Less pollution (because I'm so into the environment). Less gas consumption for those robber baron bastards. Less traffic. Less behemoth-piloting soccer moms reading a Pottery Barn catalog, sipping latte, steering with a skirted knee, and discussing dinner plans on a cell phone between slapping brats and applying eyeliner.

Did I miss any estrogen-based stereotypes? No? Good. Misogyny rules. As much as I hate to admit it, some of the best motorsickle riders I know are female. You know who you are. I'd rather ride with them than several of the squids I've witnessed endangering all our lives on the open road.

Along those lines we've already seen far too much death not only in Oklahoma but just here in Enid.

Recently a cat I knew only in passing but knew to be one hell of a good guy was killed on his Duc. Tony Trammell.

Before that, an entire mess of tragic motorsickle carnage with a sportbike debacle.

There'll be more before snow flies again. Let's try and keep it at an absolute minimum.

And remember, kiddies, we're all gonna die. If you're riding a motorsickle you're living in the meantime but might die sooner, it's all a matter of odds and timing. Act right. Think. Watch out for the assbags. Make sure people know you appreciate them. Tuck your kids in at night. And check the box to be an organ donor.

Dying doesn't scare me. Dying at age 95 in a hospital bed hooked to a respirator and shitting in a bag scares the holy hell out of me ... Hopefully I go before my organs are junk, and someone can actually make good use of them when I'm done.

On that cheery note,
FUQUE THE FRENCH!