4 May 2006


Some sick motherfucker sent me a bunch of photographs of a transected motorcyclist. Too bad the biker was a guy and not a chick with her tits hanging out like this guy's intestines are in the photographs.

I have spilled more motorcycles than I care to think about but I think the closest I got to killing myself was when I borrowed sister Sal's bike with the faring on it one summer when I did not have a ride. I rode through a deep puddle on a dirt road that had a sudden hidden end to it. My filtrum smashed straight into the top of the faring. Another couple miles an hour faster and I would have slammed my nose bones right into my brain. It took a lot of beer to fix up that headache.

Some of my many first aid instructors get quite a chuckle from people who think they are Evel Kneivel when all they are is dumb motherfuckers. One said, "They all get to look the same in their riding gear with all their bones broke and their boots full of blood."

Used to be there were not that many people who rode around here. Since the climate has warmed up lots more do. Dope City's reputation for smokin' outlaw activity economically encourages more people to live their life on the line.

My friend Curly just about died when a cage impeded his forward progress. The accident happened close to his home so a lot of people he knew saw the crews working on him as they putted by the scene. It was not pretty but at least he was in one piece.

Ease off on the gas this summer motherfuckers. You all do not have the crazy luck of Hunter S. Thompson. Keep it clean.

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