Attention, Madtown Mob: Sad news...

Jerry Buttles, aka Jerry The Jew, legendary mechanic for the "Red & White", passed away on Tuesday, March 27th. There will be a memorial service on Saturday, April 14th at 9:00 A.M.at Chapel of the Light in Fresno, Ca. A "celebration of Life" will follow at the American Legion Post 509, 3509 N. First St. in Fresno @ 1:00 PM.

Happy Easter to the Madtown Mob!! On this day of Easter eggs, let's pause to give thanks to the chicken who made the Easter egg hunt possible!

CLUCK’S LUCK

By Buckshot:

His body lay beside the road,

The blood was everywhere.

Skid marks left their trail behind,

and feathers filled the air.

Why did the chicken cross the road?

His thoughts I can but ponder,

but another speeding Oldsmobile

has stilled his urge to wander.

The chicken died but once, my friend,

not blessed with life eternal,

so lift his body reverently,

and save it for The Colonel.

Hot Rods on the bluffs. 1st Friday of every month, now until October! Palm & Nees in Fresno.

Wierd goin's -on here at the Buckshot Ranch!

Around 11:30, my B.F.D. alarm system (Big F-in' Dogs) went nuts. I looked out the window, and spotted 4 people walking down the street. Kind'a unusual out here in the boonies at Midnight... I shined my Q-Beam out the window and lit 'em up, then grabbed my robe and the .38 and headed out front. About that time, an SUV pulled up by my mail box and picked them up, and I kept my Q-Beam on them the whole time. They hauled ass ASAP. I decided to wait out front a while to see what was up, because I thought they may be casin' the neighborhood for a break-in. Dogs were barking down the street, so I lit the area up with the light. Then I heard the sirens... Shortly after that, an ambulance or sheriff's SUV showed up on the next block with lights flashing and stopped on the other side of the big field across the street. Finally, curiosity got the best of me and I called the sheriff. Seems that the idiots hit a power pole down at the corner then took leg bail. Probably kids and their dad picked them up. The sheriff caught 'em just before I called. Now my adrenalin is up, so here I am, typin' instead of snorin'. Hope YOUR night's peaceful!

Howdy to the Madtown Mob! Don't ya just LOVE Sundays?

SUNDAY MORNINGS

By Buckshot

SUNDAY MORNING, WOKE UP LATE,

DOWN ON THE KICKER WITH ALL MY WEIGHT.

THREE MORE KICKS AND IT STRUGGLES TO LIFE,

OUT IN THE STREET, I WAVE TO THE WIFE.

SHE WAVES BACK BUT I KNOW SHE'S PISSED,

UP WITH THE SHIFTER, TWIST OF THE WRIST.

WIND IN MY FACE AND NOWHERE TO GO,

NOT A COP IN SIGHT, BUT I'LL TAKE IT SLOW.

STACCATO RUMBLE OF SLASH - CUT PIPES,

DOWN AT THE CORNER AN OLD MAN GRIPES,

COUNTRY ROADS OR MOUNTAIN STREAMS,

SUNDAYS TRULY ARE BIKERS DREAMS.

Good Monday mornin' to the Madtown Mob! Here's an ode to my ol' Shovelhead chopper:

“Old man’s Shovel”

By Buckshot

********

The kick start pedal and my boot don’t fit,

I’m too damned old for this kick-start shit.

The Shovel’s cold so here I toil,

cause the crankcase is full of bled-down oil.

She finally fires and the oil relents,

and pukes a puddle from the crankcase vent.

But the idle smooths and the dry clutch sings,

and takes me back to other things.

Years ago on a desert run,

our brains were frying in the white-hot sun.

No helmets worn but our leathers rolled,

‘cause the desert night can sure get cold.

A big bonfire lit the night,

a joint was passed to make things right.

A radio blared with Jimi’s voice;

We rode to live ‘cause we had no choice.

The girls back then they came and went,

 just spending a night in a biker’s tent.

Hippie clothes and flowered hair,

it sure was great to have them there.

The years rolled by and silence fell,

on the desert nights that we knew so well.

We all moved on to wives and cars,

and missed those nights under desert stars.

Now my hair is white and my time draws near,

but the engine’s rumble turns back the years.

I’ll take this old Shovel for one last ride,

‘cause the desert night’s waiting to draw me inside.

Good Monday mornin' to the Madtown Mob! Here's a little ode to my ol' Shovelhead chopper:

“Old man’s Shovel”

By Buckshot

********

The kick start pedal and my boot don’t fit,

I’m too damned old for this kick-start shit.

The Shovel’s cold so here I toil,

cause the crankcase is full of bled-down oil.

She finally fires and the oil relents,

and pukes a puddle from the crankcase vent.

But the idle smooths and the dry clutch sings,

and takes me back to other things.

Years ago on a desert run,

our brains were frying in the white-hot sun.

No helmets worn but our leathers rolled,

‘cause the desert night can sure get cold.

A big bonfire lit the night,

a joint was passed to make things right.

A radio blared with Jimi’s voice;

We rode to live ‘cause we had no choice.

The girls back then they came and went,

 just spending a night in a biker’s tent.

Hippie clothes and flowered hair,

it sure was great to have them there.

The years rolled by and silence fell,

on the desert nights that we knew so well.

We all moved on to wives and cars,

and missed those nights under desert stars.

Now my hair is white and my time draws near,

but the engine’s rumble turns back the years.

I’ll take this old Shovel for one last ride,

‘cause the desert night’s waiting to draw me inside.