Paint Jobs & Ken Dolls

So let's suppose you spend a year or so in the asshole of the world attempting to bring peace, civility, and democracy to savages. You're pretty much completely sick of sand, goat meat, rice, sobriety, desolation, masturbation, the chu, and all forms of conveyance comprised of more than two wheels.

So you come home all excited. You knock your old lady up as soon as you're off the plane. You stage a mini-coup in Germany. You envision an Easyriders centerspread as a welcome home. Ratty offensive t-shirt flapping in the breeze, WileyX glasses blocking rays, bar hopping with friends, full blown two-wheeled freedom and stress release in the vein of a classic David Mann poster.

Instead you blaze into your assbag friend's shop (the punk you entrusted with your sled while deployed) and find it on the lift in this sad condition:

So do you freak out? Kill the prick who was "taking care of" your motorsickle? Employ some of your newfound and well-practiced martial force principles? Or just stand there and think, "What has that asshole down to my bike?"

Well, I missed his initial reaction because I was gone (hiding) cutting firewood (drinking beer) with a friend (drunken jackass). But I hear it was something along the lines of "What the FUCK!"

Whether it was the intial shock of seeing his pristine cop bike stripped like a chop shop reject or the haunting visions of all the other projects I've never finished (cabinet doors, the WC, the Towny, the treehouse, etc ...) I think The Lizard was about to shit himself.

In my defense this was only sort of my idea. His new bride was the true instigator. So I had her to blame shit on. This could easily be pawned off as a domestic matter rather than civil judgement.

Now, however, all is well. Young Nault layed on a killer paint job, new cool-guy farkle (ode to Monsignor Klassen) thingies were installed, cop knobs were replaced, and a copious amount of beer engineering was employed. The entire project was even accomplished with minimal Lizard regression to junkyard methods and "bigger hammer" theories.

The finished project is groovy. Damned groovy. Jenna Jameson Groovy. Once my eyes stop bleeding and I get these shakes under control I'll figure out why it is I can't upload the picture. Too stupid, too hungover ... likely both. They won't load to Blogger, so here's a link: Lizard Glide.

In the meantime I want to thank all the kind souls who have encouraged me and reminded me the blog has been neglected over the past month or so. Really, thank you ... every one of you pricks. Your notes of encouragement: "Hey, asshole! Write a new blog!" "Get off your fat ass and type!" "You suck, I'm glad you aren't writing!" "I'm banging your mom!" are all very touching. They really get to me. Right there where my heart would be. If I still had one. Fortunately I have come to the realization every one sucks but me, so your petty whining means nothing. Blow me.

I've been busy you pathetic slime. I've been out there living life and giving the rest of the world someone to talk about. The Prophet Paul (not the one in the bible) once said, "If it weren't for people like us living like we do people like them would have nothing to talk about and no one to want to be." Or something along those lines. It sounded better at 4am digging a grave.

Yes, I was arrested in Waynoka. Serious offense. Big time mess. I honestly do not know if my reputation and social standing will recoup. In fact I'm a bit hesitant to write on the subject as my case is barely adjudicated and parole could possibly be revoked. Barring a gag order from the judge I suppose I can make limited comments. Sadly I've become a social outcast and am unable to walk dow the street without hushed whispers and barely concealed pointing.

Yes, friends, I am a trespasser. A known trespasser. And a smartass.

After being accosted and arrested by a life size ken doll (now with lifelike enuch action!) I spent a total of two hours being processed through Waynoka city and then Woods County jails. Where, I must admit, everyone with a badge was more than accomodating. This is the first time I've been arrested (no, not the end of the sentence) where every legitimate lawdog involved was basically decent and sensible. If / when I get arrested again I hope it's in Woods County. Those guys are all right. If you're looking to get an arrest I highly recommend NW Oklahoma ... Tell 'em Jeff sent ya.

Now the penile-challenged shitbag who instigated the mess - he's simply not a good person. A fact which was reiterated to me through various conversations over the evening. Once I'd received some background on the glorified security guard psuedo-cop bitch who "arrested" me I was glad I insulted his family, his marraige, his endowment, and his intelligence. I felt no guilt whatsoever for mentioning the questionable lineage of his children, his tenuous hold on heterosexuality, or the possibility his bride was likely in flagrante delicto with a nubian neighbor whilst he found perverse joy cuffing and holding a bearded tubby male.

As a side note; can you be considered an officer of the law if you have to wait for a real cop to "officially" show up and arrest whoever you have nabbed? Isn't that what they call a citizens arrest? But hey, what do I know? All my legal experience has been on the wrong side of the bench.

My only real regret is the fact I didn't know the cocksmoking coward's full name until it was too late to pull any of my Barbie jokes or employ "anatomically correct" humor in so many ways. man I got a million of them ... But hell, I'm betting the little Mattell Toy has heard it all. In fact that's likely why he is the bitter pissy little troll I encountered on the tracks. You see it all the time; the kid everyone harassed because he couldn't get along gets a badge, a gun, weak authority, and a lifetime of schadenfreude.

But the highlights of the incident:
Being poked with a broom by my hoodlum friends through jail bars.
Watching my co-conspirators attempt to mate against said bars.
The cops surprised to find a gaggle of drunken Goons harassing their inmates.
The former mayor of Manchester licking a cop's window.
Riding with idiots to Alva.
Hot jail clerk girl.
A Woods County Deputy's quote, "What the hell? Trespassing? That's just stupid."
Riding with good people home.
Returning to main street Waynoka to have Big Shoe Matt cast a disappointed eye and comment, "Hrmmph ... two hours ..." then shake his head like a coach who just chalked up a loss.

When you've recently finished 4 years in a fed pen 120 minutes with the locals on a bullshit rap fails to impress.

Once the dust settled it was actually funny. And the rumor mill in my small burg kicked ass. Suppoosedly I'd stopped a train with a gun and attempted to rob it. Amongst other tales ...

The incident made good fodder for an article with Thunder Press too. As implausible as it seems a very nice cat from their Southern Region asked if I'd be interested in pounding out some sort of garbage article about runs in the area. Well, lemme see ... a legitimate excuse to go ride, drink, act up, and take pictures? One more flimsy bullshit ploy to abandon my family and spend the weekend filthy and offensive with my hoodlum friends? The actual legitimization of my very favorite activity? Possibly even a stipend for the words? Hell yes! Fired the article off and they pretended it failed to suck. Supposedly in print this month. That almost makes me a writer. Almost.

For the next article, and pictures, their helpful advice ran along the lines of, "Resolution and composition was fine, but how about some pictures of people actually 'riding' their bikes, or at least sitting on them. All you gave us are drunks in various locales. And turn off the damned date stamp!" Blamed the date thing on Jr. the drunk thing ... well, what's the parable: You knew I was a snake when you picked me up.

Somehow I doubt this is how The Good Doctor got started. Although I would kill for a Steadman portrait ...

For now the calendar just stays full. Every freaking weekend there is another poker run for another cause. Poker Run overkill is fast approaching. Conveniently at about the same time I lamely try to promote The Running Of The Rats. Oh swell ... now I can rant, rave and bitch about the confluence of poker runs and their questionable merits, then turn to the cat next to me with, "Oh, and here's a flyer for a run we do in July." I have become that which I most despise.

In our small town alone this past weekend two different organizations were holding fundraising poker runs. The Elks and The Shriners. These were at least organizations which help the community at large. Of course that didn't stop me from hoping for a rumble ala West Side Story if their paths crossed. Old men in funny hats stroking it out over Robert's Rules Of Order. Tubby White guys in carefully choreorgaphed dance / fight scenes. A tattered fez crushed under the wheels of a souped up go-cart. Fraternal Org Smackdown! Switchblades and parlimentary procedure.

I crack me up. No, really, ask my wife. I could care less if the three people who read this shit find any humor at all in the crap I pound out, as long as I make ME laugh. And I'm laughing. So there.

Legitimate efforts to raise funds and benefit the community at large are always welcome. I never cuss these pursuits. And I generally try to help if I am at all able. Links on the website, spreading the word, the events calendar, flyers, yada yada yada ... Folks who ride and work with a genuine purpose and cause don't suck. But then there are the others ... corporate runs. Questionable cause runs. Big-money sponsored profit machines. Marketing schemes focused sharply on the motorsickle demographic. Usually put on by people who do not ride at all, or do so only in the trophy poser sense.

These people suck more ass than a Thai Hooker on dollar salad toss day. (I've used that one before, haven't I. Tough shit. My blog.)

In the past couple of years we've had a local media conglomerate and known shitbag profiteer look to the concept of 'The Poker Run' as a means to generate advertising revenue and sales. Not to support a worthy cause with the monies collected from participants, but to hide under the mode and guise of the poker run theme whilst fattening a Burns-size wallet.

I came home from college to work on farm machinery after everyone at home died. So no, I didn't finish the accounting degree. I'm a dropout (and a trespasser). Therefore my reasoning skills and math may be a little off here but follow me and check my work:

8 "sponsors" with their logo on your flyer and a brief mention in radio ads at $989 each.
An unknown number of "minor sponsors" at $350 each.
$1500 worth of free tickets to the concert you don't even stage at the end.

So far we're at, approximately / "at least", $10,000. Before you've even signed up a participant.
So you trade out some shitty flyer printing for some advertising. Whip up a cheesy t-shirt. Stage a run where people stop at your "sponsors" locations. And charge people $25 each to be involved ...

And your grand prize for Best Hand: $500.

I'm not a smart man, Jenny, but I know what forcible anal sodomy is.

To make it look better you put a bullshit line on the flyer reading, "A portion of proceeds go to The Ronald McDonald House." Yeah ... I'll bet it was a huge portion. If it was anything less than $8,000 the run was nothing more than a blatant and obscene fleecing of the riding community in general and a bastardization of the concept at large. Let's be realistic, if C. Montgomery Burns were to give $8,000 to the Ronald McDonald House it would be front page news. No, I'm betting it was somewhere in the neigborhood of $500. If that.

My point? I think the thing speaks for itself. Res ipsa loquitur. Eventually the riding public will have to grow tired of being treated as mindless money faunts. The backlash will be a healthy disrespect and distrust of all runs. And then legitimate causes suffer. All because the predatory and unprincipled saw an opportunity to capitalize on us.

Why does it matter to me? As a matter of principle it pisses me off, but in the long run it doesn't make a bit of difference. We give away all the money we make on the RatRun. We're not impersonating philanthropists and riding coat tails to profit. In fact, it generally costs around $300-$400 to stage the RatRun once the smoke clears. But it's worth it. Best hand gets well over $1,000, we're not screwing anyone at $20 for the whole gig, we have nice leisurely ride with friends, and this year we were able to award three scholarships. Three. That's pretty damned groovy.

Perhaps after folks realize they're being treated as sheep they'll revolt against the unscrupulous bastards treating them as rolling ATMs and refuse to be fiscally raped.

"Treat me good, I'll treat you better.
Treat me bad, I'll treat you worse."

Regardless these sorts of minor irritants the riding season is on. Wheat harvest will soon be complete and I'm getting my fat ass on the road for some poker run promotion. Pawhuska, as usual, kicked all manner of various ass. The ride over with Goons, the many stops on the many beers tour. Discovering a new bar in Ponca. Laughing until you think you're just gonna puke. The resolution of all pressing issues. Nothing in the world cures the hate and discontent like a ride with friends. Whether it's the inherent danger of a motorsickle road trip or just the common bond of a group geared towards two-wheeled pursuits the camraderie is hard to beat. Especially when your pack is thinned down to those who don't suck. Can't beat that shit with a sledge.

It had been a while since I'd been able to travel in minimalist fashion. A simple overnight sans passenger meant a jacket and someone else's folding chair constituted adequate camping equipment. Buddy has the ultimate sunshade. The OCIB cats have a hell of a good tent. Adolph Coors has laminated boxes to hold ice. And Bad Brad's serves up a fine turd maker. Life is good.

If this work load will subside I can head for points North on the weekend. Maybe a little Goat Roper, Otto, Bad News Jimmy action in ICT. Hell yes ...

FREE MATT!

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