Well, Madtown Mobbers, we'd better start being extra nice to India; they get to decide if we LIVE or DIE!

It's not bad enough that our jobs are being outsourced to OOGLY-BOOGLY LAND, but now they have the power of life and death over us, LITERALLY!! They get to decide what treatment we get, NOT our doctors! I think enough is enough, how about you???

The Aurora shootings: A field day for Gun Grabbers!

Watching news accounts, the shooter's mother said "I'm not surprised". My first reaction was "then why didn't she get him some psychiatric help?" Then, I looked back on past experience before my son committed suicide, and realized why: You can't GET help for someone until they actually commit a crime, and even then, if they're an adult, "the system" won't step in and put them under observation at a relative's request. I don't know if the guns were legally purchased, but if they were, the sale would not have been permitted had a dangerous psychiatric profile shown up on his record. If they were NOT purchased legally, no gun control laws would have prevented it. Why is it that in our society, those who need help can't get it until they commit mass murder?

Hey, Madtown Mob; it's FRIIIIIDAY!! Hope nobody out there has to drive in the Bay Area... This crap gives TAXi a whole new meaning!

They used to call San Francisco "Moscow  on the Left Coast", but for the last few years, Moscovites have more freedom than San Franciscans, and it's getting WORSE! Before long, they'll have an "air tax", and charge for air by the cubic foot. At least joggers would be charged more than couch potatos... Tell me, Mobbers: Where is the America we grew up in?

Howdy, Madtown Mob! Archaeologists just made what may be the most uplifting find of the 21st Century!

Contrary to modern thought, the bra was apparently invented sometime in the Dark Ages, but lost popularity when production was held up, and under-handed tactics were used to prevent a hands-on marketing campaign. Apparently, production ceased when Marie Antoinette wore a T-shirt emblazoned with "MY HEADLIGHTS ARE ON FOR SAFETY" and only resumed in the late 1800s. Henry the 8th was once heard announcing: "Harken, for I have unfasteneth this contrary contrivance with one hand, foresuth!"

Hey, Mobbers! How about a little fiction story on a lazy Sunday afternoon?

AMIGOS OF THE 3^RD WHEEL

By Buckshot

“Hey Rick”,  Jonesy  yelled toward the telephone receiver he held at arms length. “Sorry to wake ya up, but I need a favor.” Holding the phone away from his ear was a necessary precaution when calling Rick before noon on Saturdays. After the cursing had slowed, Jonesy returned the receiver to his ear.

          “Whatta ya need at this ungodly hour, anyway,” Rick mumbled.

          “I need some help gettin’ something home. You know anybody with a trailer?”

          Rick paused to collect his thoughts, and when he had them both collected, he said “I think so. When do ya need it?”

          “As soon as possible, Bro. I bought this trike at a yard sale, and I’ve got it stored next door at a guy’s shop. I’m afraid his dog’ll eat the damn thing if I don’t get it outa there.”

          Rick swung his feet out of bed and sat on the edge, wiping the sleep from his eyes with the corner of the sheet. “Okay. Give he a couple hours to get the trailer lined out an’ I’ll pick ya up.”

          Two hours later, Jonesy and Rick stood looking at the remains of a once proud Volkswagen powered trike from the seventies. The blue metal flake paint had oxidized to nearly tattletale grey, and every piece of chrome on it was covered with a red patina of rust. The seat cover hung in tatters, and a large ragged hole in the center tunnel allowed an unobstructed view of the ground below. Rick scratched his head and ran his fingers around the jagged edge of the hole in the fiberglass body, then looked nervously behind him. “This guy must have one helluva dog!”

          “Naw,” Jonesy shrugged. “That’s where the tree grew up through it”

          “Tree?” Rick looked at Jonesy like he’d lost his mind. “You bought a trike with a tree in it?”

          “Yeah,” Jonesy said defensively, wiping at the peeling jell coat with a greasy rag. “It’s been sittin’ a while, but I got it for less than the seven hundred bucks the wife okayed.”

          “Hmmm” Rick pretended to be deep in thought. “Maybe if we whip the guy’s ass, we can get your money back.”

          “Awww, come on, Rick. It isn’t as bad as it looks,” Jonesy protested.

          “Yeah,” Rick chuckled, “NOTHING could be THAT bad! Let’s get it loaded up.”

          By the time the trike rested on its nearly flat tires in Jonesy’s garage, Possum had joined the group. A battery charger hummed merrily beside the tragic remains, it’s cables like the life support tubes hooked to a dying derelict.

Possum knelt to inspect the engine that was covered with what looked like ten years worth of dust covered oil. “Will it crank over?” he asked, gratefully accepting the beer Jonesy tossed him.

          “Haven’t tried yet,” Jonesy said, popping his own beer after handing another frosty can to Rick. “Let’s give her a try.” He reached down and turned the key, and the sound that came from the engine was a cross between a squeal and a wheeze. The engine started to crank over, sending an entire colony of black widow spiders scattering toward all points of the compass. Several were blown out the exhaust like hairy eight legged cannon balls.

          “Jesus!” Jonesy yelled, madly racing back and forth, stomping the venomous creatures, some as big as silver dollars. “Come on, guys, help me before they get in the damn house!”

          Ten minutes later, most of the spiders had succumbed to either well placed boots or the can of Raid Jonesy found on the back of the bench. Those who hadn’t had hidden in the dark recesses of the garage until the place calmed down a bit.

          “Well, it does turn over,” Rick observed. “At least kinda.”

          Possum grabbed a can of gas from next to the lawn mower. “Let’s dump some gas in the carb and try it again.” He turned the spout down and dumped a generous dollop of gas down the throat of the carb, watching as it ran out of every shaft, hole, and gasket.

“Give her a try now, Jonesy!” he said, setting the can out of reach of any conflagration that may have ensued.

          Jonesy hit the key, the trike coughed, belched out a cloud of smoke and spider parts, and threw a ball of flame six feet out the exhaust pipe. Another shot of gas, and the engine sputtered to life for the first time since the Nixon presidency.

          Jonesy jumped onto the seat, ignoring the cloud of decomposing foam rubber that shot up from beneath him. He pushed the clutch down and tried to put the transmission in gear, only to be greeted with a grinding noise that sent shivers down his spine. “Damn clutch won’t release,” he grumbled.

“Clutch disk must be rusted to the flywheel and pressure plate from sitting,” Possum said, his T-shirt pulled up over his nose to keep most of the smoke out of his lungs. “I’ve seen it happen before. It’s like direct drive.”

“What do I do now?” Jonesy yelled over the sputtering engine.

“Shut it off, put it in gear, and hold the clutch down. We’ll rock it ‘till the clutch disc breaks loose.”

The wheezing V-Dub engine went silent, a wisp of smoke curling from the exhaust pipe like the barrel of Matt Dillon’s gun.

“Throttle feels kinda sticky too,” Jonesy said, reaching down to wiggle the offending cable where it disappeared under the fiberglass body.

Possum shrugged noncommittally. “One thing at a time, Bro,” he said, as he and Rick leaned their weight against the back of the trike, rocking it back and forth with Jonesy still holding the clutch in. The tired engine began turning over as they pushed it forward.

“Hit the brake, Jonesy,” Rick grunted as the trike chuffed ahead.

“No brakes, either,” Jonesy said over his shoulder.

Possum laughed, his shoulder against the rear nerf bar. “Well, just make sure the ignition’s….” 

The trike started, and lurched forward in a cloud of acrid smoke, the throttle still stuck wide open. It cleared the edge of the garage door by inches, and shot out into the street with the right rear tire off the ground as a screaming Jonesy barely made the turn.

“Off,” Possum finished, watching trike and rider grow smaller in the distance.

They could hear the trike as Jonesy circled the block, the sputtering engine running wide open. He soon came into sight, swinging wide to make the corner, a trail of smoke behind him like a shot up fighter plane coming in for a landing in an old war movie.

“He’s movin’ right along, isn’t he,” Rick said, taking a swig of his beer as Jonesy tore past the house, his hands locked on the bars in a death grip, his eyes as big as coffee cups.

“Yep,” Possom replied. “And the longer it runs, the better it sounds.”

“Why the hell doesn’t he shut the ignition off?” Rick pondered aloud.

“Hell,” Possum said with a shrug, “I don’t know. Why don’t ya run out there an’ ask him next time he comes by?”

“Seems like we ought ta stop him or something,” Rick muttered, craning his neck to see around the edge of the garage door as Jonesy began his third lap of the block.

“Got any suggestions?” Possum asked, as Jonesy shot past the house.

Rick scratched his beard in thought. “Yeah, maybe I do at that.” He trotted across the front yard and grabbed the garden hose out of the flowerbed, testing the spray nozzle to assure himself that it was on. “Those ol’ V-Dubs die if ya spit on the hood. Grab the neighbor’s hose and when he comes around the corner again, let him have it.”

Possum turned his ear toward the screaming trike as it came up the block behind them, the sputtering now having turned to a throaty roar. “You mean IF he comes around the corner again.”

Jonesy took the corner in a three wheel slide, leaning his considerable weight off to the right like a sidecar racer, the tires screaming on the blacktop road. Garbage cans flew, scattering trash in a wide arc as he clipped them with a sliding rear tire. The neighbor ran out, cursing and shaking his fist, throwing one of the bags of garbage he was carrying toward Jonesy, adding to the mess already scattered down the street.

“Man!” Rick said, pointing. “I didn’t know he could ride like that!”

“I don’t think he knew either!” Possum yelled over his shoulder as he ran toward the street, the neighbor’s garden hose clenched in his fist, gushing water.

The combined hoses soaked Jonesy and the trike, the engine once again beginning to sputter as the water shorted out the coil and plug wires. It finally chugged to a halt near the far corner.

Jonesy met them at the halfway point, water still streaming from his red walrus mustache. “Whew! Thanks guys. I thought I was a goner.” He held up a key, broken just below the first notch. “I hit the key with my knee and broke it when the damn thing started, and I couldn’t shut it off.”

“Maybe you should have a yard sale, Jonesy,” Rick suggested. “I hear trikes sell really quick at yard sales.”

“Awww, give me a break, guys,” Jonesy chuckled. “It was startin’ to run really good there at the last, and besides, I’ve still got nearly a hundred dollars left on my seven hundred dollar limit!”

“If you want our help on this project,” Possum said, looking back at the trike sitting in the middle of the road, water pooling under it, “It’ll cost ya more than that in beer!”

         

           

Well, Madtown Mobbers, looks like they turned 'em all loose today!

Took a ride up Hwy 168 to the top of the four lane below Shaver lake to test out the new toy hauler. The trailer towed great, and the truck performed flawlessly, pulling the steepest grade within miles, so we turned around and headed home. On the way back, we came upon two wrecks within a mile. The first was around a blind corner, and looked like an Algore shitbox either stopped or slowed, and a pickup smacked it, sending both into a 10' deep ditch. Not a mile down the road, another pickup hit a tree. Jeez... Just lucky we didn't get tangled up in that! Thanks to whoever waved us to slow down before we came around the blind corner and smacked 'em!

It's Saturday, Mobbers! Hope you have fun plans for the weekend! Just be careful so you don't end up in this guy's clinic!

I'll bet this guy went to the same college in India as the Butcher of Bombay. Either that, or he just thought "Great... Another bitch with a back ache."

Well, Madtown Mobbers, I've had a lot of questions about my first novel, Skinner's War, so I'm giving you a quick look inside! I copied it from a PDF file, so pardon the strange layout... And remember as you see things that are just happening now, that I wrote this in 1999!

ONE:

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

newfound 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 advisors,

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 pseudomilitary

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 Northwest.

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 advisor 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!”

Howdy, Madtown Mob! Looks like this guy's having a bad day!

You may have to paste this on your browser...

http://editorial.autos.msn.com/blogs/autosblogpost-spt.aspx?post=dad94b6c-8817-411d-b6bc-95b32ec4ea48&icid=autos_3130

Good morning, "Mobbers". Well, I lost another old friend the other day, and the automotive world lost a bright star.

My old friend, Mike Haney, passed away the other day at the age of 65. Mike and I used to run around together back in the '70s, when we both drag raced and were part of the Fresno "street machine scene". Mike was a Ford man through and through, and went on to teach performance classes for Ford Motor Company at FCC for Ford technicians.
I remember the time we were waiting in the staging lanes at Fresno Dragways, and the track officials made Mike back his tan Falcon up against the fence so Art Arfons could make a pass with his jet dragster, "The Green Monster". After Arfons left the line, we looked at Mike's Falcon, and the hood was smoking where the afterburner had burned the paint off of it! We all got a laugh out of that, and Mike left the damage for quite a while as a conversation piece.
My prayers go out to Mike's wife, Sharon, and his family. He will be missed.

Hey, Mobbers! Here's how I want my obituary to read!

'Mornin' Madtown Mob!! Well, we made it past Hump Day... How about a little religion for us grease monkeys? FUNNY stuff, right here!!

Howdy, Madtown Mob! Just got back from a ride to the mountains. Got to see a cougar! It's amazing how tame and innocent they look sleeping on a tree branch in the sun!

Good Monday morning, Madtown Mob! Here's a little story to get your dander up an' your blood flowin'!

I found this in the back pages of today's paper. Read it and weep:
Our Social Security coffers are empty, our economy is in shambles, we're trying to trample the weak and hurdle the dead just to survive, and what does our government do? They spend 92 million of OUR tax dollars on a state of the art headquarters for the Afghan military! Remember when we backed the Shah of Iran, and the weapons and facilities we paid for got used to kill our soldiers? Where is the outcry on CRAP like this??? At least we told them no to a bigger office... Wow, what a concession...