Saturday, March 31, 2012

Saturday ride.

Howdy to the Madtown Mob! How ya doin' out there? Reggie and I just got home from the C.O.P.S. Memorial Run to benefit the families of fallen officers. Great turnout, though I don't have any solid numbers yet. It started at Visalia H.D., wound through the back roads and foot hills for 97 miles, and ended with a BBQ and party at Millerton Lake. We knew there was rain on the way, but it held off 'till the party was over and we were 5 miles from home, then did it ever let us have it! Rained like a cow pissin' on a flat rock, and tossed in some hail to boot! It was coming from the side so our windshields didn't help. By the time we got home, we were soaked to the skin, but we had a great time in spite of it!
We spent last night in Visalia so we could get there early, since I'm covering the run for Thunder Press. We had a great dinner and drinks at Crawdaddy's on Main Street. Great place with great food! It's been a fun weekend, and it isn't over yet! Maybe we can find some mischief to get into tomorrow!

Friday, March 30, 2012

Happy Friday to the Madtown Mob!

Reggie & I are heading out for the Visalia C.O.P.S. run. I thought I'd leave ya with a little something to read 'till we get back.

By Buckshot

The roar of the explosion rocked the Rat Hole Bar and Grill, shaking the walls, and eliciting a fine mist of accumulated dust loose from the ceiling, along with a pair of Lizard Lips Louise’s panties that had stuck to the roof several months ago. Tanker cursed, wiping off the remains of his pickled pig’s foot that had slipped from his startled fingers and onto the floor. He had just raised the unsanitary morsel to his lips when the front door flew open, and H.L. “Hardluck” Harding ran into the room.
“Tanker!… Hey, Tank!” he screamed. Check it out, man!”
“Check what out, damnit?” he mumbled around the chewy pickled pork.
“Some sumbitch just blew up the Krispy Kreme donut shop!”
Hardluck pointed toward the door, and Tanker slid his 350 pound bulk off the stool and followed, a look of disbelief on his face. “Who the hell would do a miserable thing like that, Hardluck?” he queried, swallowing noisily.
It was a car bomb, I guess. Some asshole’s Toyota blew up in the parking lot. Probably tryin’ to blow up some cops, there’s usually plenty around there!”
Tanker shook his massive, shaggy head. “Nope. Not since they got robbed twice in a week.” He paused to wash the pig’s foot down with half a mug of beer. “Now the cops hang out at the barbershop where it’s safer.”
“Maybe they didn’t know that,” Hardluck said, shrugging impassively. “I was just ridin’ by right after it happened.”
Tanker peered out the door into the gloom. “Anybody hurt?”
“I don’t think so, but everything for half a block’s covered with that sticky sugar shit they dip the donuts in. I think Freddy, the night guy was in the back with his girlfriend. They were in the parkin’ lot covered with frosting, an’ she was tryin’ to pull her pants up, but they were stuck to her legs. That gal’s got an ass on her, lemme tell ya!”
“Son of a bitch!” Tanker spat. “That was one of my favorite places around here. Now what the hell am I gonna do for breakfast?”
“Maybe ya could go over to the barbershop with the cops? “
Tanker slapped Hardluck playfully on the shoulder, nearly knocking him off his feet. “Aw, what the hell. Sit down an’ have a beer, Hardluck. We’ll worry about breakfast when the time comes.”
The wail of approaching sirens echoed down the street, and Tanker set his empty mug down on the bar to join Hardluck at the door. “Only took ‘em half an hour. Not bad time from the barbershop. It’s nearly three blocks away.”
The back door flew open with a crash, and Tony, the bartender nearly dropped the bottle of Jack Daniels he had been watering down while nobody was looking. “What’n hell do you think you’re doin’, pal?” he yelled.
Tanker and Hardluck turned, staring down the barrel of a nickel plated revolver clutched in the hand of a very confused looking man. His swarthy complexion and dark eyes made him hard to see in the gloom of the burned out light at the rear of the room, but his voice was low and dangerous. “I deed a begehul” he said, motioning with the barrel of the pistol.
Tanker looked at the bartender. “Whad he say, Tony?”
“Shit, I don’t know,” Tony stammered, his eyes on the gun. “But whatever it was, I think he means it!”
Tanker walked up to the gunman, stopping almost within reach. “What did ya just say, buddy?”
The swarthy man shook his head and repeated, “I deed a begehul!” His accent hindering the conversation seemed to irritate him further.
“You ain’t from around here, are ya?” Tanker asked, his fingers twitching near the gun, almost ready to make his move.
The squeaking hinges on the front door made everyone turn toward the interruption at once.
“You fellas seen anybody strange come in here?” The first police officer asked. They had stopped just inside the door to let their eyes adjust to the gloom.
Tanker felt the barrel of the pistol press into his back.
“Officer,” he said, wincing as the cold steel dug between his ribs, “does this look like a place where you’d find anyone strange?” Tanker punctuated the question with a loud, juicy fart.
“Uh… No, I guess it doesn’t at that.” The officer spun on his heel, and as he did, his foot hit the greasy spot left by Tanker’s pig’s foot and sent him sprawling face first to the sticky, littered floor. Without delay, he picked himself up and made a hasty exit, followed by his partner.
“Useless sons ‘a…” Tanker sputtered.
The gun probed his rib cage again. “I stel deed a begehul!” the voice behind him demanded.
Tanker spun to face his antagonist. “Ya’ miserable puke of a gawdamn raghead! If ya’d learn to talk American, I could get ya what ya want, an get ya the hell outa here!”
“I believe he wants a vehicle, Tanker, my friend,” said a voice from the darkness of the back booth.
“You still here, Doc?” Tanker rumbled. “I thought you’d left hours ago.”
“No, I’m afraid Mr. Daniels and I were taking a little nap.”
“The explosion didn’t wake ya up? Tanker asked, incredulous.
“No, indeed not. It was your raucous flatulence that interrupted my peaceful slumber, I’m afraid.”
“You mind me askin’ how ya know what this diaper domed son of a bitch is talkin’ about?” Tanker inquired, gesturing toward the terrorist with a massive thumb.
“Tanker, my friend,” Doc chuckled, “I’ve been a dentist for forty years.”
“Oh, then you’ve probably seen a lot of pain, too, Tanker mused.”
“Oh, indeed I have,” Doc admitted.
“Tell me, Doc, does it look anything like… THIS?” he shouted, bringing a massive knee up into the terrorist’s groin. It lifted the screaming Arab two feet off the ground, the pistol flying from his grasp as he crashed to the floor in a quivering heap.
Tanker immediately grabbed the sobbing man by the neck and lifted him up, his feet dangling a foot off the floor. “Now I gotcha, you funny lookin’ funny talkin’ camel hunchin’ son of a bitch! I’m gonna pound yer skinny ass to doll rags!”
“Allah wid sed me do padarise!” the man said through gritted teeth.
“Whad he say, Doc?” Tanker asked. He walked toward the back booth, the limp terrorist still hanging from a massive hand.
“He said Allah will send him to paradise, I believe. Their religion teaches them that if they die in a holy war, they go straight to Heaven.”
“Oh, yeah. I remember readin’ about that in a National Geographic I found in a gas station bathroom. Pretty stupid, huh? So, what should I do with him, Doc?” Tanker asked, totally confused.
Doc slid from the booth, and climbed unsteadily to his feet, wiping pretzel crumbs from the front of his dark, rumpled suit. “I think I know just the thing, Tanker.” Doc walked to the bar, where he dipped his hand into a big glass jar, extracting one of the venerable pickled pig’s feet. “I think our friend looks a bit hungry, don’t you?”
The terrorist’s eyes grew wide as Tanker took the pig’s foot, and stuffed it into the Arab’s mouth as he screamed oaths in his native language. He choked and tried to spit, but Tanker forced his jaw shut while Doc held the struggling man’s nostrils shut. Finally, he swallowed, choking for breath.
“Damn, Doc,” Tanker said, “I’ve never seen a fella with such an almighty aversion to pickled pig’s feet in my life.”
“He has good reason, Tanker. He believes that by making him eat pork, we’ve sentenced him to an eternity in Hell. They’re forbidden to touch pork.”
“Oh, they are, are they?” Tanker asked. “Hardluck! Go call Pancho an’ have him bring over the hide from one of them hogs he raises.”

Thirty minutes later, the terrorist was sewn inside the skin of a freshly slaughtered hog. He was reduced to a babbling mass of quivering flesh when the two police officers peeked cautiously in through the door. “Somebody in here call us?”
“Yep,” Tanker said, pointing to the babbling terrorist “Caught us a mad bomber, here.”
The officers stared in disgust at the bloody pig skin and its contents, but, dedicated public servants that they were, they stooped and lifted the bomber between them. “You know, sir,” the sergeant said to Tanker, “that there is a substantial reward for this man.”
Tanker and Hardluck looked at Tony and Doc and grinned. “How substantial?”
“About ten thousand dollars, I believe,” the officer said. “Just come down to the station tomorrow.”
After the officers left with the terrorist in tow, Tony poured them all another round. “Well, boys,” he said, “it looks like a ragheads to riches story to me!”

Thursday, March 29, 2012

For our lost brothers on Vietnam Vet's Day.

By Buckshot

Engraved in marble, name by name
a testament to Johnson’s shame.
The inept men on the senate floor
would not allow us to win the war.

Our blood we spilled on foreign shores
To satisfy their corporate whores.
They made the bombs our pilots dropped
prolonging a war that should have stopped.

We cannot change the wars of past,
once that deadly die is cast,
but we’ll never forget how they stood tall,
our kindred souls upon the wall.

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

A good rainy morning to the Madtown Mob! Have you ever been "stereotyped"?

I was just reading about Travon, the young man who was shot in Florida, and looking at a picture of him in gangster attire. We see so much on the news about young black men being killed by other young black men, (it happens almost daily in Fresno, our neighbor to the south) selling drugs, and creating all sorts of havoc, yet the vast majority of young black men in America killed nobody, sold no drugs, stole nothing, and burglarized no homes yesterday, and who hears about them? Can you blame people for the alleged stereotyping?
We who ride motorcycles (bikers, if you will,) have much the same problem, in fact, there's an old saying reportedly coined by the Red & White: "When we do right, nobody remembers; when we do wrong, nobody forgets!" We have runs to raise money for charity more than any other group with the possible exception of the Shriners, raising millions of dollars a year. We have incidents now and then like the shootings in Laughlin and Reno. Unfortunately, we're all lumped in together in the eyes of the public, so what can be done about it? We can try to distance ourselves from the groups that perpetuate the violent acts, but they attend the same rides and functions as we do. About the only way is to appear different. Wear more mainstream clothes, ride a quiet bike, and get a haircut. I choose to do NONE of these things, because the public's perception of me doesn't bother me at all. In fact, a little intimidation in my countenance helps keep tailgaters and panhandlers at bay. I do, however, treat law enforcement, even "door rattlers" with a certain modicum of respect, because they have authority and, more importantly, GUNS! Maybe if Trevon had chosen to respond with respect instead of an attitude, he would still be alive in spite of his choice of clothing. Every time I've been stopped on my Harleys the cop has had his hand close to his sidearm. I can't blame him for that, but I've found that a "good morning" or "good afternoon", even if it's not heart-felt at the time, has not only brought his hand away from my possible demise, but saved me a few tickets as well.

Tuesday, March 27, 2012

Howdy to my Madtown Mob! Here's one to make ya hug your kids!

By Buckshot

          Hawk smiled sadly as he wiped away the smudges small hands had left on the Sportster tank. The intricate dragon that wrapped itself around the shining red tank had always held the youngster in captivated awe. From the pearlescent scales that covered the muscular, twisting body, to the veined translucent rainbow wings, the dragon was museum quality art, but the eyes were what captured the imagination. The eyes seemed to follow your every movement with their ruby intensity. It was the eyes that fascinated the little boy from down the street.
He had appeared in the garage doorway one afternoon while Hawk was truing the rods and wheels for a friend’s old iron head Sportster engine.
He stood by patiently, hands in pockets, until Hawk noticed him and laid his tools down on the scarred workbench.
“Hi, Mister!” The little fellow started to step through the doorway, then stopped.
“Well, hi there, Pal,” Hawk said, a grin stretching his bearded cheeks. “Come on in and sit a while.” He waved toward an old metal folding chair that leaned drunkenly on bent legs. “My name’s Frank Hawkins, but my friends call me Hawk.”    
“Pete Edwards,” the boy said, his tiny hand swallowed by Hawk’s huge paw.
The boy appeared to be about seven or eight, and when he climbed into the old chair, the toes of his threadbare sneakers barely touched the floor. His blue jeans had holes in the knees, and his yellow T-shirt left a wide expanse of pink belly exposed where its shrinkage and his growth had both left their mark. A faded Raiders cap was pulled down on his head until the tops of both ears turned outward comically.
From the moment he entered, his bright blue eyes were locked on the dragon.
 “Sure a pretty motorcycle,” he said, his eyes wandering over Hawks Shovelhead chopper.
The old ’74 had been pumped to 103 inches, and mounted along with a kick only ratchet top four speed in an original wishbone frame. A stripped wide glide with no fender, and a 21” dual disc wheel lent a “strictly business” look to the bright red machine. The shotgun straights assaulted the ears, but what held the eyes was the dragon.
Hawk had finally talked Audrey Rawlings Arena, one of the best airbrush artists in the business, into making his vision of the dragon into reality.
He had hauled the freshly basecoated tank, frame, and rear fender all the way to Fresno and told her his idea. Her talent and imagination had combined to create an image that came alive right before your eyes; so real you waited for it to breathe. It wrapped around the tank, its mighty wings spread, nostrils flared defiantly. Its body wound around the frame onto the Triumph ribbed rear fender, the tail ending in a deadly barb below the short four inch sissy bar that supported the fender.
“Thanks,” Hawk said. “I’m kinda fond of it myself.”
“Seen ya ridin’ it. Mom says it’s pretty loud.”
Hawk grinned. “Just tell her that loud pipes save lives.”
“She always smiles when she hears ya go by. My Pop had a Harley.”
Hawk reached into the old refrigerator next to the door and brought forth two cold Pepsis. He handed one to the boy and opened the other.
“How do you know this is a Harley?”
“Mom said. She said it’s a Shovelhead.”
“Hawk raised an eyebrow in surprise. “And right she is, too!”
The boy raised his small shoulders in a shrug. “Yep. She’s pretty much always right, I guess.”
“So,” Hawk asked, “I haven’t seen you around before. You just move in?”
“Yep. Mom said a family named Morrison used to live there. It’s just down the street a ways.”
“Yeah,” Hawk said. “I remember the Morrisons. The man and his wife were okay, but the kid was an assh… Uh… problem.”
Pete smiled, his teeth straight and white. “Mom said he’s an asshole too. You won’t tell her I said that will ya?”
“Naw.” Hawk shook his head, his dark, wavy hair moving over his wide shoulders. “That’s between us guys.”
Pete nodded, then removed his Raiders cap, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his arm. His bald scalp drew a startled look from Hawk.
“It’s the cancer, Hawk.” Pete said, noticing Hawk’s surprise. “They give me this stuff that makes my hair fall out.” He rubbed his head with his left hand. “But it’s supposed to grow back someday.”
Hawk nodded. “Bet it will, at that, Pete.”
The boy drained the last drops of soda from his can, and stood. “I’d better be getting home, now. Thanks for the soda, Hawk.”
The boy’s manners and demeanor were more like those of an adult than a young boy, and Hawk momentarily wondered if his mother or the disease had more to do with the boy’s seriousness.
“Come on back anytime, Pete,” Hawk called over his shoulder as the boy started down the sidewalk toward home.

Pete stopped by to visit and admire the Shovelhead, and run his fingers gently over the sleek visage of the dragon several times over the next few weeks. Not enough to become a nuisance, but enough to allow Hawk to get to know more about the boy.
His mother was a single mom. Pete’s dad had been killed in a plane crash three years before. The money from the settlement had gone mostly to pay off debts owed by the fledgling business they owned. Just enough was left to buy the house down the street, and the two year old Camaro she drove. She now worked as a legal secretary for a small law firm.
The discovery of Pete’s bone cancer had devastated her, and drained what was left of her savings despite her insurance.
Hawk shook his head sadly. Not a pretty picture, he thought.

About a month after his first visit, Pete showed up at Hawks, and found him busy changing the spark plug on a slightly battered Honda Trail 70.  “Come on in, Pete. See what ya think of this!”
Pete pushed the cap back on his head a ways, and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Cool!”
“Just picked it up this morning. Thought maybe I could find somebody to take it for a test ride.”
Pete looked up expectantly, a lop-sided grin on his freckled face.
Hawk chuckled. “Know anybody around here who might like to try her out?”
“Yeah!” Pete squealed, his hands coming out of his pockets. “Me!”

Within days, the weed patch that served as the bachelor Hawk’s back yard became a flat track, as Pete became more accomplished on the little Honda. The time came when he seldom fell, and one afternoon, Hawk brought out a surprise for the astonished Pete. It was a spare tank he’d picked up and sent to Audrey. It now rested in Hawk’s outstretched hands, with a dragon identical to the one on Hawk’s Shovel wrapping around its diminutive surface. When Hawk had explained the situation, Audrey had rushed the job through without complaint.
“Just like yours, Hawk!” Pete beamed, running his hands over the gleaming surface. Hawk pulled his dark Ray Bans from the neck of his T-shirt and slipped them on, even though it was not that bright inside the old garage.
By the time fall sent its chilly wind to swirl the brown leaves that covered the back yard track, Pete had grown so frail he was unable to ride the little Honda. He sat for hours at a time talking to Hawk about riding motorcycles, going to Sturgis, Daytona, and all the other places Hawk had seen, and the experience of being in one spot with thousands of roaring Harley-Davidsons. The excitement in his eyes made Hawk a better storyteller than he ever thought he could be.

The Saturday morning in early November dawned crisp and clear, and Hawk raised the garage door as he usually did, a cup of coffee in his hand.
The cup shattered unnoticed at his feet as he stared at the ambulance pulling away from the curb in front of Pete’s house.
“Turn your lights on, damn you! Get rollin’!” he shouted, as the ambulance rolled slowly past, but the look on the driver’s face told him all he needed to know.
Hawk walked over to the little Honda, and lifted it gently onto the bench. He wiped the shining red surface down with a soft rag, gently removing each small fingerprint and smudge. As he worked, a beam of sunshine broke through the clouds, making dust dance in the light that filtered in the window.
Through the dark lenses of the Ray Bans he’d slipped on, Hawk noticed something Audrey had put there without telling him. There was a single, glistening tear in the corner of the Dragon’s eye.   

The Little Red Hen version 2012 And OUR "BARN YARD"

This HAD to be a California chicken!
"Who will help me plant my wheat?" asked the little red hen.
"Not I," said the cow.
"Not I," said the duck.
"Not I," said the pig.
"Not I," said the goose.
"Then I will do it by myself." She planted her crop and the wheat grew and ripened.
"Who will help me reap my wheat?" asked the little red hen.
"Not I," said the duck.
"Out of my classification," said the pig.
"I'd lose my seniority," said the cow.
"I'd lose my unemployment compensation," said the goose.
"Then I will do it by myself," said the little red hen, and so she did.
"Who will help me bake the bread?" asked the little red hen.
"That would be overtime for me," said the cow.
"I'd lose my welfare benefits," said the duck.
"I'm a dropout and never learned how," said the pig.
"If I'm to be the only helper, that's discrimination," said the goose.
"Then I will do it by myself," said the little red hen.
She baked five loaves and held them up for all of her neighbors to see. They wanted some and, in fact, demanded a share but the little red hen said, "No, I shall eat all five loaves."
"Excess profits!" cried the cow. (Nancy )
"Capitalist leech!" screamed the duck. (Barbara )
"I demand equal rights!" yelled the goose. (Jesse )
The pig just grunted in disdain. (Harry )
And they all painted 'Unfair!' picket signs and marched around and around the little red hen, shouting obscenities.
Then farmer obbummer came He said to the little red hen, "You must not be so greedy."
"But I earned the bread," said the little red hen.
"Exactly," said obbummer the farmer. "That is what makes our free enterprise system so wonderful. Anyone in the barnyard can earn as much as he wants. But under our modern government regulations, the productive workers must divide the fruits of their labor with those who are lazy and idle."
And they all lived happily ever after, including the little red hen, who smiled and clucked, "I am grateful, for now I truly understand."
But her neighbors became quite disappointed in her. She never again baked bread because she joined the 'party' and got her bread free. And all the Democrats smiled. 'Fairness' had been established.
Individual initiative had died but nobody noticed; perhaps no one cared so long as there was free bread that 'the rich' were paying for.

Bill Clinton is getting $12 million for his memoirs.
Hillary got $8 million for hers.
That's $20 million for the memories from two people, who for eight years repeatedly testified, under oath, that they couldn't remember anything.


Sunday, March 25, 2012

It's the economy, stupid!

That quote has been bandied about since the Clinton days, but it still holds true. My son was a Systems Engineer for Pelco, a security camera / recording technology company in Clovis, Ca. for over 10 years. The founders decided to sell out, and a French company, Schnider Electric, bought it, promising that nothing would change. Since that promise by the damned FROGS, nearly all the employees, including my son, were laid off, (over 600 at my last count, but probably many more by now) and their jobs outsourced overseas. This was a devastating blow to the City of Clovis as well as to the employees of Pelco.The job market here in the San Joaquin Valley is one of the worst in the nation, and my son was forced to take a $14 an hour job as an I.T. Coordinator; a job that would have paid around $25-$50 an hour a few years ago.
California has the slowest growing economy in the nation right now, and that's primarily because the environment is so damned unfriendly to business. Take Fresno, for example... There was a nightclub / restaurant / bar that was doing very well in a high-end neighborhood in North Fresno. The City found that they were selling more alcohol than food for a period of several months, and demanded that they apply for a different license at a much higher cost. This forced the owners to close, putting all the employees out of work, and reducing the taxes flowing into the City's coffers. If you're looking for any MENSA members, you certainly won't find them in Fresno government!
Recently, a friend who owns a successful bar & nightclub in Clovis, ( for those of you on the East Coast, Fresno and Clovis adjoin,) and wanted to move her business to a larger venue in Fresno. She was told that she must submit an application accompanied by a non-refundable payment of $2,500, and there were so many restrictions on the business that she decided to stay in Clovis. This, while Fresno's mayor claims that she wants businesses to locate in Fresno. Typical California thinking. Meanwhile, she's laying off an alarming number of city employees and privatizing City services, and there is even talk of Fresno filing bankruptcy. If the City Council didn't step over dollars to pick up pennies, this would not be the case.
As I said in an earlier post, a lot of the liberal voters who are responsible for this decaying economy have moved to other states where conservatives have kept their economy under control. To them, I say: 'Thanks a LOT, assholes!"

Saturday, March 24, 2012

Liberals, progressives and feminists are causing most of their own problems.

I'll probably catch Hell for this, but that suits me just fine! I'm here pointin' out stupidity where I find it, and some folks are bound to be offended, which makes me contented with life in general.
The Radical Left is crying about the Religious Right passing laws regarding abortion, Voter IDs, and other laws they consider detrimental to their Socialist cause. So... how have the atheists, libs, and progressives caused this, you ask? Well, for decades, the Politically Correct advocates have been pushing the Christian majority around, getting God out of schools, court rooms, and other public places; removing crosses from private property, and getting Nativity scenes banned from malls and church lawns at Christmas. They've even successfully turned Christmas into "Winter Holiday". The Constitution guarantees us freedom OF religion, NOT freedom FROM religion!
Well, now the Christian majority is PISSED, and they're beginning to strike back, and the "Lefties" are screaming like babies! The shoe is on the other foot, and the leading Republican candidates are both pushing Christian values.
 I'm not what folks would call a "Good Christian" I guess, but I do know right from wrong, and the pendulum has started swinging back to what's right. Maybe some day we'll see schools put on Christmas pageants again, see the malls decked out with CHRISTMAS decorations, and have store cashiers wish us a Merry Christmas like they used to!

Howdy, all you Madtown Misfits! Hope yer day was a great one!

 Everybody seemed to like my last poem, so here's another. If you like it, leave me a comment, an' recommend the blog! Thanks!

Throttle dirge
By Buckshot

I roll on the throttle and feel the surge
as wild and urgent as a primal urge.
The blacktop before me has a life of its own;
it beckons me forward like lovers I’ve known.

I lean into curves like the swell of hips
and the narrow bridges like puckered lips.
Excitement builds as I round each curve;
how far can I push it if I have the nerve?

Sparks are flying as I make the turns,
the pipes are scraping and the asphalt burns.
I push the limits of my bike and skill,
as the Twin Cam engine drinks it’s fill.

Life holds no wonder without the ride;
it’s hollow and empty with nothing inside,
and the warm amber whisky, it takes me away
to places I’ve been but couldn’t stay.

So I revere the throttle and the thrill it brings,
and the whisky that promises angel’s wings;
the end will be fast, with no time to linger,
when that terrible Reaper points his finger.

Do I fear his touch? No, not at all!
He reaches for me like a siren’s call,
and from the carnage my soul will fly,
then we’ll ride forever, my lover and I.

But she does not care; she does not feel,
for I am flesh and she is steel,
so I’ll lavish her with paint and chrome
till a host of angels takes me home.

This is a GREAT public service announcement! Feel free to share!

You may have to "cut and paste" to your browser, but it's worth it!

Friday, March 23, 2012


Why is it that people here in California consistently vote for the ass-clowns who stifle business with tons of stupid regulations, impose sky high licensing and application fees, and raise taxes, take water from west side farmers putting them out of business and thousands of farm workers on the welfare rolls because of some worthless two inch fish, and give OUR hard earned tax dollars to families who have been on welfare for generations, then, after their ignorant voting habits put the economy in the shitter, they move out of state to a conservative area because the cost of living is just TOO HIGH here in California!! And to put the icing on the cake, they keep voting for equivalent ass-clowns who want to turn their new sanctuary into another California! In my humble opinion, anyone who has consistently voted for the Democratic Party should not be allowed across the border for longer than 2 weeks at a time! They made OUR bed, and should be forced to sleep in it!

Think Christians have the same protection as Muslims in America? Think again!

When Alice Becomes Aisha
In a ruling marked "Not for Publication," a U.S. court ruled that an Islamic sugar-coated indoctrination program where school children had to "become a Muslim" for a number of weeks to "get a good grade" was not "overt religious exercises" that violated the Establishment Clause of the First Amendment of the U.S. Constitution.
"What (school officials) are doing … is to give Muslim students religious benefits that they do not give any other religion right now." -- Richard Thompson, public interest lawyer.
21st Century Trojan Horse: Sharia Rolls into American Education, Court Systems

For those of you who missed this in The Horse Backstreet Choppers a while back...

By Buckshot

After Pop was killed, I always dreaded the weekend trips upstate to visit Uncle Ted. He looked so much like Pop it was almost unbearable, and I used to mope around for days after our return home. Sure, Uncle Ted lived in the mountains, and his back yard was always full of deer, raccoons, squirrels, and the occasional black bear or cougar, but tramping around in the woods just wasn’t the same without Pop. He taught me how to track a buck, how to build a shelter and survive in the wilderness in any kind of weather, and he taught me respect for guns, and how to handle them safely. My weeklong hunting trips with Pop had been my right of passage into what was to become an early and unwelcome manhood. I was twelve years old when Pop died.
          They’d ruled Pop’s death an accident, and no charges had been filed against the woman who killed him. She’d turned left in front of Pop, and he’d struck her big, white Ford station wagon square in the passenger door. He’d died at the scene from massive head and internal injuries. That was before the helmet law, but a helmet wouldn’t have saved his life anyway. My last memory of Pop was him riding away on his Shovelhead chopper, waving over his shoulder, his long, dark hair swirling in the slipstream behind him. Several hours later, Mom got the call that would change our lives forever.
          My room was right next to Mom’s. Sometimes when sleep wouldn’t come, I’d lie awake into the hours before dawn. At times, I could hear Mom call his name in her sleep, then hear her soft sobs as she awoke alone in their big empty bed. I guess her loneliness was as overwhelming as mine, because a couple of years later, she remarried.
          Roger, my step-dad was okay, I guess. He tried to be a pal, and I guess he was, but we had nothing at all in common, and we ended up politely ignoring each other most of the time.
By the time I was seventeen, I was restless, and headed for trouble with the law. Several of my friends got caught joy riding in a stolen car moments after they had dropped me off at my house. Naturally, Roger and Mom had a fit when they found out, and being the bull-headed little asshole I was in those days, I just packed a few clothes and left. Determined to make it on my own, I had numerous scrapes with the law, until finally a judge gave me the choice of enlisting in the military, or going to prison. I chose the military without a second’s hesitation.
The Marine Corps wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. They taught me self-respect, respect for others, and a fierce independence of spirit. I really thought about a re-up, but finally chose to do my four years, and get out.
I wandered around a while, doing odd jobs to earn traveling money, and finally ended up where I had begun. Mom and Roger were glad to see me, of course, but my homecoming was overshadowed by bad news.
“Son,” Mom took my arm and led me into the kitchen, pouring me a cup of steaming coffee. “Uncle Ted is dying. He has inoperable cancer. The doctors say he has maybe six months left, if that.”
Stunned, the coffee cup almost slipped from my fingers, the scalding coffee slopping onto my tennis shoes and the faded linoleum floor. “I’ve got to go see him, Mom,” I said finally. I could feel my eyes blur with unshed tears, and thought, What would my jarhead buddies think if they saw me cry?
She reached up and laid a hand on my shoulder. “He’d like that, Son. He always talks about how much you look like your dad in the pictures you’ve sent. Every time I talk to him, he never fails to ask how you’re doing.”
I reached down and took Mom gently by the shoulders and pulled her tightly to my chest. “I’ll leave first thing in the morning, Mom.”

Dawn found me rattling north in my old pickup, the rising sun almost painful as it streamed in through the dirty passenger side window. I had often thought about getting a bike; a big Harley Davidson like Pop’s, but the  months I had spent on the road had eaten up the few dollars I had managed to save while I was in the Corps, and the price of a new, or even used Harley now was staggering. Pop’s had gone to impound, and I sometimes felt the cold fingers of rage grip me when I thought about his beloved Shovelhead being stripped, with a piece going here, and a piece going there. Without thinking, I slammed my fist into the dashboard of the truck, adding another dent to the growing collection inside and out.
The road north stretched out like a black silk ribbon, and I continued to drive, the childhood feelings of dread returning more with each mile, but for a different reason now.

“It’s good to see you, Son.”  Uncle Ted held out a frail hand to squeeze mine with a surprisingly strong grip.
 “Come in… Come in!” he said, ushering me inside the familiar confines of the native log home where I had spent so much time in my youth. We sat, sipping Jack Daniel’s and talking until the wee hours of the morning. Most of the conversation was about Pop, and the good times he and Uncle Ted had shared as children, and the times after I was born, when Pop and Uncle Ted had gone hunting and fishing in the surrounding forests, sometimes taking me along. 
“We sure had some times, didn’t we Danny,” he asked, swirling the amber whisky in his glass, making the ice tinkle merrily.
“We sure as Hell did, Uncle Ted,” I assured him.
“Just Ted, Son.” He held his glass out, pointing with the index finger near its rim. “No reason to be so damn formal at this stage of the game.” 
I didn’t know quite what to say, so I just nodded, and he continued talking as he poured us both another drink. “I guess you know by now that I don’t have much time left. A few months from now, I’ll be sharing a drink with your Pop somewhere,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Although I shudder to think where we might be.”  He sat down in his recliner again, his face showing the strain of standing. “And there’s one thing I want to be able to tell him I’ve passed along when I do.”
I waited silently for an explanation. My curiosity must’ve shown on my face, because he painfully started to raise himself up from the chair again. I stood quickly and extended my hand, which he gripped to help pull him to his feet. He walked slowly toward the door, motioning for me to follow, and we walked down the steps from the porch into the inky blackness, him gripping my arm for support.
Keys rattled in the lock that secured the doors of the barn. With no livestock to tend in several years, the old barn had sat unused, and untended. The hinges squeaked from lack of oil as he swung the doors wide, and felt along the inside wall for the light switch.
The glare of fluorescent tubes made me squint until my eyes adjusted to the light. Dust covered everything in sight, clinging to the tack and tools that hung where they had been left and forgotten years before. Rats had chewed the skirts and stirrups on the saddles, and the halters and reins were hanging in tatters. Ted never spared the moldering leather a glance as he made his way to the rear stall, where he wrestled momentarily with the slatted gate until the rusted latch opened, and the gate swung wide.
He gently swept a dust covered tarp from the contents of the stall, and as I stepped cautiously around the gate, I stopped dead in my tracks, stunned speechless. There in the gloom sat Pop’s Shovelhead. The chrome had a fine patina of rust, and the brown scum that seems to always collect on vegetative metal. The front wheel was bent into a figure eight, and smashed against the front legs of the frame, still secured to the sliders of the twisted wide glide front end.
“Pop’s Shovel!” I felt the words catch in my throat as I stared at the wreckage of my father’s prized possession. I dropped to one knee beside it and gently ran my fingers over the Sportster tank, the black paint still slick and glossy under the dirt. The image of Pop, waving back to us on his last night on earth came flooding back, and I leaned my forehead against the big Harley and cried for the second time in the ten years since his death.

Ted laid a hand on my shoulder as we stood next to my old pickup, Pop’s chopper tied down in the bed, and covered with a blue plastic tarp to protect it from the rain that threatened to fall from the scudding clouds overhead, and from prying eyes as well.
“Well, Son,” he said, his hand shaking. “I knew your dad would have wanted you to have it, so I picked it up from impound the day after he died. I brought his personal effects home from the hospital, and your mother told me to let them keep it. She never wanted to see another motorcycle as long as she lived.”  He patted the tarp lovingly, the bulk of the Harley causing the springs on my pickup to sag under its weight. “I knew your dad better than anyone but her, and I knew he’d never want anyone to get their hands on it but you, and now it’s yours. I’m glad I can tell him that when I meet up with him again.”
Having already said my goodbyes to Aunt Terri, I stood, looking into the eyes of Pop’s only brother, still clear and bright despite the ravages of the disease that was slowly taking his life. “I don’t know how to thank you,” I told him, gently taking his extended hand.
“Just put her back like she was, Son… And,” he chuckled, “Watch out for assholes!”

For weeks on end, I worked with single-minded obsession, the hazy winter sun many times finding me still at work when it rose from the darkness. Bolt by bolt, I carefully disassembled the Shovelhead’s twisted remains, spending hours cleaning, polishing, and setting each part aside. I thought about replacing and updating some of the old technology parts, but decided to keep it just as Pop had left it. After all, it’s still his in a way. I’m just its caretaker.
The folks at the chrome shop took their own sweet time stripping and replating the rust pitted pieces, and I shot the plain, black urethane myself.
It was early spring when I finished double-checking the last bolt, and stood back to admire the finished chopper.
I swung my leg over it and settled onto the seat. I glanced at my reflection in the mirror on the door leading into the house, and was stunned by the visage staring back at me.
My hair had grown long over the winter, and hung down past my shoulders. My dark beard was full, but trimmed neatly. There, looking back at me in the mirror was Pop. Had I subconsciously tried to recreate him as well as his Harley?  I shook my head. No. This is who I was born to be, and though I resemble Pop, it’s more by coincidence than design.
I stepped off the bike and opened a Corona, the skunky yellow brew washing the cobwebs in my mind away. When I finished the beer, I walked over and turned the petcock under the glistening Sporty tank, watching the gas fill the clear filter between the black cylinders.
Two kicks through with the ignition off, just as I’d watched Pop do so many times, then turn the brass key until the headlight came to life.
The next kick brought the Shovel to life, the rumble of the big twin engine filling my ears for the first time in nearly eleven years. I sat astride the throbbing beast, the engine now idling with the staccato rhythm that only the Harley Davidson can produce.
I dropped it into first gear and slowly rolled out into the morning sunshine. As I gathered speed, my hair billowing out behind me, I whispered, unheard, into the rush of wind that filled my ears. “Here we are, Pop. Your Harley. Your son. Your legacy.”   

Feds buying up all surplus ammo, and stopping sales to YOU!

I saw this coming years ago. A vacuum Seal-a-Meal works great for preserving ammo and reloading components for decades! Vacuum seal them and store them in surplus GI ammo cans. It also works for keeping rust from forming on guns. Bag 'em along with a small desiccant bag. (The little white packets that come with electronics, etc.) Just don't let the packet touch the gun.

Thursday, March 22, 2012

A couple more of the cool rides in the "Ranchos Rejects"!

Hot Rods! Some of the guys I hang out with here in The Ranchos. This was at tonight's monthly dinner.

This one kind'a fit me like a glove. That's why I wrote it!

     By Buckshot

I’m a crabby ol’ biker
an’ that’s just a fact
I’ve had people ask me:
”Man… What’s up YOUR crack?”
I don’t give a shit
what the young bikers think,
but I’ll act like I care
if they buy me a drink.

My Shovelhead smokes
an’ it’s grubby as shit
An’ half of the parts
I’ve had to make fit.
But I rode coast to coast
on this old machine,
and the deck of a hardtail
will turn a man mean.

So don’t try to push me
as we stand at the bar,
that kinda shit
won’t get ya too far.
Cause you’ll soon be explainin’
as time comes to pass
how a guy twice your age
had ta kick your young ass!

Wednesday, March 21, 2012



Is it just me, or is this WRONG?

After reading the headlines about the American soldier who "snapped" and killed several Afghan civilians, I couldn't help but notice an irony: There's a cry from the Secretary of Defense and others in government to try this soldier quickly and execute him in spite of his having suffered traumatic brain injury during one of FOUR tours of duty in intense combat, yet more than 2 years after the Fort Hood massacre, the perpetrator, "Major" Hassan, has yet to stand trial! This devout MUSLIM killed 13 Americans and wounded 29 while shouting Allah Akbar, so his motives were obvious, yet they're still debating his sanity! They claim that this Muslim psychiatrist got Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome from LISTENING to real soldiers who had actually been in combat!

Okay, let's all sing along: "Oh beautiful, for spacious skies, our nation's gone to Hell..."

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

Here's a sample of SKINNER'S WAR. Hope you enjoy it!

This is taken directly from a PDF file, so expect a few mistakes that aren't in the finished book.

Blood ran off the edge of the stainless steel table. It splattered the tops of the man’s boots, and pooled in large sticky puddles on the floor at his feet. He wielded the large knife with surgical precision, it’s blade glistening with crimson as he went about his work.
His mind drifted as he sliced the tough hide from the flesh, finding solace in memories of better times. Sure, he had a job, such as it is, and a roof over his head, which was more than some could claim, but he was as far from content as a man could be.
His memories often slipped back a decade, returning him to the little shop where he turned boxes of rusty parts into fire-breathing steel steeds. To the shiny chrome, glistening paint, and supple leather that his hands assembled into an extension of his soul. To the wind blowing through his beard, and the long black hair that flowed from under the small helmet he wore as he cruised the back roads, his Avon tires caressing the curves.
Inadvertently, his right hand twisted the knife as his mind twisted the throttle, causing him to slice through the hide. The hole was small, but if the foreman caught it, they’d dock him the price of the hide for damn sure. “Son of a bitch,” he mumbled, “In a bastard society like this, you can’t get ahead no matter what you do!”
He’d had to close his motorcycle shop ten years before, ending a life-long dream because the damned bureaucrats in Washington had decided that motor vehicles were ruining the air quality, so they had rationed gasoline, and restricted travel to a bare minimum.
No more cruising the back roads and boulevards. No more trips to the coast for the weekend. Now, you had to have papers to travel, and those were only issued on an as-needed basis, for business.
He laughed under his breath when he thought about how it all began.
In the mid-90’s, both major political parties, who had been the only viable leadership for over 200 years, were embroiled in scandals the likes of which were never seen before in American politics.
One of the oldest families in the political arena, the Kennerlies, were involved in drug use, sex with teenage girls, adultery, and financial double-dealings. Used to the media turning their heads at the appropriate time, they were shocked to discover that this new found notoriety cost them seats in the Senate and the House, and even forced some of the family into taking private sector jobs.
The Speaker of the House, an abrasive fellow to begin with, lost the public trust when he was censured by an ethics committee for financial misdeeds, about the same time the freshman representatives found their resolve for their “revolution” had melted under the flood of bad publicity over cuts in social services and welfare spending.
Infighting among the party members was at an all time high, with senators, congressmen, and representatives criticizing each other and their own party without regard of what “airing their dirty laundry in public” was doing to their credibility, and that of their respective parties.
The White House, long held in reverent awe by most citizens, was turned into a world class hotel, with rooms for rent to the highest bidder, teas and private audiences with the President for a price, and policy made by suggestions from foreign interests who’s contributions went into the party’s “war chest”.
A substantial number of White House personnel were working without security clearance because of drug use or criminal records, and the F.B.I. was used as an internal spy ring to “sniff out” enemies of the “most ethical administration in history.” (Or so it was called before the President’s first term in office.)
The majority of the appointees to major posts such as Surgeon General and Attorney General, and a large number of White House aides and councils resigned or were forced to resign, as scandal after scandal was made public.
The lives and business dealings of the President and First Lady before their election were under constant scrutiny by special prosecutors, and rumors of their impending indictment were rampant in the press.
Once more, an arrogant administration had managed to snatch defeat from the slobbering jaws of victory.
The distrust and revulsion that this obvious misuse of power and betrayal of public trust instilled in the people of America led to the rise of a relatively unknown party that was listed on the ballot in the last several national and state elections as the Ecology Party.
Led by a former Underwriters Laboratory product tester named Raphael Major, they were never taken seriously by the two major parties until their upset victory in the presidential election of 2004. It was a victory that shocked none any more than the bewildered leaders of the Ecology Party.
Thrust into a position of power and respect that he never seriously expected to win, and was horribly ill prepared for, President Major did what the last new President and most of those before him had done. He tried to amass and hold all the power he possibly could over the American people.
The new president did not trust the military in any way, shape, or form. He also viewed the F.B.I., and the C.I.A. with no small measure of distrust. Therefore, at a suggestion from his advisers, he founded the National Police Force.
The N.P.F. was an entity unto itself, answering only to the White House. The rank and file members of the N.P.F. were called “soldiers,” rather than officers, because President Major knew that the public held more fear of the military than it did for police officers.
The officers of the N.P.F., who’s highest rank was Captain, liked the fact that their acts of domestic terrorism were largely blamed on the military by the citizens. They even received military surplus weapons and vehicles, and resided at former military bases that had been closed by cutbacks during previous administrations.
President Major never consulted the Chiefs of Staff, because he felt that the military was the enemy of the Earth, and only destroyed the environment. He did not inform them of any changes in policy, or apprise them of the fact that a whole new pseudo-military force was now operating on American soil. His only comment was “Let those stuffy-assed brass polishers take care of Bosnia or somewhere, and leave us alone!”
The Ecology Party had originated out of a coalition of ecological groups operating primarily in California and the Pacific North-west.
They were opposed to logging, hunting, fishing, off-road vehicles, and any other use of the outdoors that didn’t fit into the tight parameters of what they felt were politically correct pastimes, such as hiking, bird watching, and group sex.
A magnet for not only left wing radicals in the elite environmental movement, but for the naive members of “generation X,” who felt guilty about any wrong purportedly done to any cultural or ethnic group at any time in history, and who saw it as their duty to right those wrongs at any cost.
Also welcomed to the fold were the militant animal rights activists, who, after repeated exposure to “Bambi” are convinced that animals really talk when humans are not around, and also experience the full range of emotions that humans do.
Since all these separate groups helped to cinch the victory of the rapidly growing party, President Major felt it was only fair that each faction had an adviser on his personal staff to assure that his decisions were balanced in all ways. Unfortunately, he did not take into consideration the fact that 75% of the American people were not represented in his cabinet, and furthermore, could not care less about most of the causes those in his cabinet did represent.
One of the first things on the agenda of the new President was to call a cabinet meeting to discuss gun control. While previous administrations pressed their own gun control bills, never in history did a President have such newly elected support as President Major now enjoyed.
Senator Barbara Shepherd, also of “Humans for Animal Ethics” opened the discussion at President Majors’ call of “Ladies First!”
“We, as a society,” she shouted, “Cannot continue to let innocent lives be shattered by people with guns!” After a sizable round of applause, she continued. “Last year alone, thousands of deer, bear, and other species of our fur-bearing friends were willfully and callously slaughtered, leaving behind grieving loved ones to cry their little hearts out in the quiet of the forest!”
Waiting for the applause to once more die down, Barbara made a great show of wiping a tear that trickled down her heavily powdered cheek with a monogrammed silk hankie.
“The exploitation of animals must not be allowed to continue!” she intoned, oblivious to the plight of the silkworm that had more than a passing interest in the manufacture of her hankie.
“We really MUST ban the ownership and use of all guns. Rifles, pistols, and especially the ones that shoot those nasty millimeter things!”
The President, who was no stranger to firearms, having seen one as a child, rolled his eyes and said, “Barb, Dear, they are called bullets.”
“Whatever,” she replied with her usual arrogance. “We really must be rid of them, whatever they are, once and for all!”
The next to speak was Peter Fitzwell, from the gay prison inmate’s rights group, “Over The Wall.” (Born Daniel Morrison, he had officially changed his name at age 21.)
“Every year,” he began, “home owners with guns steal the lives of hundreds of our brothers and sisters. Are we to allow this whole-sale slaughter to continue just so these homeowners can keep their televisions and jewelry?”
He was interrupted briefly by catcalls and whistles from his own little group, then continued. “What price are we to put on human life? Sure, sometimes burglars or muggers kill someone, but not all! These armed maniacs must be stopped, and stopped now, before more lives are lost to their greed!”
Pausing to wipe a drop of spittle from his chin with the back of his hand, he resumed. “Australia recently dealt with their gun problem with a series of laws that we may benefit from also. Their law states that it is a crime to use deadly force to protect your property or life, and that all firearms must be surrendered to the authorities by a specified time. That,” he stated in summation, “is a law that we, in America, need to enact before we lose our best and brightest to armed citizens!”
The remainder of those who chose to speak had similar ideas, and before the meeting was adjourned, President Major told his personal secretary, “Find out all you can about that 1996 Australian gun law, and get me a draft of it a.s.a.p.”

“Aww, SHIT!” Skinner screamed to no one in particular, as he threw down what passed for a newspaper these days. It landed on the worn and faded carpet with the crumpled front page declaring in bold headline type: “WASHINGTON BANS PRIVATELY OWNED MOTORCYCLES.”
“Surgeon general says injuries could prove costly to national health care plan. Exceptions are police and military use only. All registered vehicles having less than four wheels must be relinquished to the proper authorities within seven days.” “They’ll damn well have to kill me to get mine”, Skinner vowed.
A chill ran up his spine at the thought. He knew this government of “New World Order” would not hesitate to do exactly that. He also knew how vulnerable he and everyone else was after the introduction of “The Chip”.
Feeling the tiny lump on the inside if his left bicep that marked the location of the microchip, he thought back on how the chip had come into existence.
After several years of socialized medicine, the healthcare system was plagued with so many clerical “snafus” that it was brought almost to a standstill. The national director of Health and Human Services proposed a system that had been used to identify show and breeding animals since the late eighties. A microchip was implanted just under the skin, to be scanned by a laser reader. This eliminated most paperwork associated with medical claims. This approach was so successful that once every man, woman, and child had the chip implanted, the government started using the chip’s electronic signature for surveillance of “dissidents” and “misfits.” (For which title Skinner was a prime candidate.)
The newspapers and mass media began an unprecedented attack on the second amendment, which culminated in its repeal, and the systematic disarming of the American people. Skinner was one of millions who had “seen the writing on the wall.”
Knowing that once all the guns were out of the hands of the average citizen, he became easy prey for the punks and scum who never gave a rat’s ass about the law anyway, he bought some Army surplus airtight ammo cans, and some heavy grease, and buried all his guns and ammunition for a future time of need.