Started filling show dates for the 2011 season. Kicked off the year at the Wide Open Bike Show in Kansas City, MO, on Jan 8-9, 2011. We had a great time and are already scheduled for the next two Wide Open Bike Shows in St. Louis, MO, on Feb 12-13, 2011, and Tulsa, OK, on Feb 26-27, 2011.
We'll also be in attendance at the Colorado Motorcycle Show and Swap in Denver on Jan 29-30, 2011.
Hope to see you at one of the shows in 2011.
For those of you who've followed my ramblings on Myspace or Facebook, some of this is old news. As you can see, I take every opportunity to come up with new content. ;)
Hell Hath No Pussy
About three months ago, I got my daughter a kitten. Why? Because I'm a complete dumbass that will never learn from his past mistakes, regardless of how many scars I have as a reminder. My parents completely wasted their money in providing daycare for me as a child... my daycare should have started in my early twenties and continued to some undetermined point in the future. Come to think of it, I wonder if I could hire some hot little college chick to babysit me? Hmmm... you can almost hear the wheels turning, can't you?
My daughter named this little feline fucker from hell, "Gizmo". I just call it "Jiz"... when my daughter enters therapy in her mid twenties, I want there to be no misunderstanding as to my role in how she got there. But this isn't a story about the damage I'm doing to the life of my daughter, or any other person in the immediate area around me... this is a story about Jiz... the two pound eleven ounce spawn of Satan. A cute and cuddly little ball of fur that I'd chuck into the microwave on high in a moment if I thought I could get away with it.
Since that little fur fucker has taken up residence in my house, I haven't been able to walk in my own home without having my ankles attacked. I don't think there is a pair of white socks in my possession that is not blood stained... and it's only me that gets this special attention. I could be the seventh position of column three in a military procession marching through my living room and that little box-shitting-ass-wipe would sniff me out and sink those little baby feline teeth deep into the pink softness of my lower extremities.
Of course Jiz needed a new home inside the home I already can't afford. I had to sell four pints of blood and the '72 Camaro out of the drive to buy Jiz his own "Cat Condo". For that much money, the Cat Condo should be somewhere beachfront in Daytona so I could at least go visit during bike week. So... how does this ungrateful nut-sack repay me... by sleeping on the pillows of my bed during the day while I'm out. I mean it's not like I'm losing any sleep at night while I lay there picking cat hair out of my mouth... I can't sleep because I know the little fucker is just waiting for me to drift off so he can jump up on my bed and spray me with cat urine.
I tried to wire up some aluminum foil to an outlet in my bedroom so I could shock the little pecker when he jumped up on my bed, but I melted a fuse and got third degree electrical burns on my ass during the "testing phase"... don't ask... I'm not in the mood.
Needless to say, when New Year's Eve rolled around and I didn't have to work the next day, I felt a need to cut loose and try to forget my sorrows... read as "my whole life after age twenty-one". So, since I had about twenty years or so to drown, I wiped out my good friend Bud in the fridge. Then I moved on to his cousins, Jim and Jack hidden in the pantry and drained them as well. I think I was already drinking brake fluid by 10:00 PM and Dick Clark actually looked young again.
I was so intoxicated that I was barely able to enjoy my kitten-free night. My daughter, the pre-teen princess prima donna of Johnson County, had a friend spending the night and Jiz had his own problems... being dressed up in old dolls clothes and enduring photo shoots for the photo albums of the blackmarket underage profiles on Myspace. Had I been less inebriated, I would have enjoyed knowing his night wasn't exactly going as planned. Then again, had I been less inebriated, I would have noticed my daughter's door was open about three inches as I drug my ass to my room to go to bed... at about 10:30 PM on New Year's Eve. Yeah... I party like a rock star.
But I didn't enjoy the thought of him being forced into the feline equivalent Rue Paul role... and I didn't notice her door was open... if I had, I would have closed my bedroom door prior to donning my flannel SouthPark jammies and taking my contacts out prior to going to bed. I now know that little fucker was waiting for this very moment... when my defenses were down due to intoxication and my sense of sight was hampered by... well, the fact that I'm fucking blind without my contacts or glasses. But how could he know?
All I saw was a flash of blackness that bolted out of my shower like a villain in one of those new comic book movies. I felt the needle like baby teeth tear into the flesh on either side of my big toe... not just any big toe, the big toe that had been mashed and disfigured almost two years ago at the cage fights in Grain Valley at Whiskey Tango. The big toe I go to great lenghts to protect from all who may tread upon it. This little fucker had sunk his teeth into my most vulnerable spot... or at least that's what I thought.
It was on... daughter's pet or not, we were going to war "mano a felano"... yes, I made it up, but just roll with me here. I lept across the room like the primo ballerina of the African Elephant Ballet Troupe (the 'e' on the end makes it sophisticated), knocking over a chair, my blow-up party doll affectionately named Ivanna, and an orange traffic cone that I didn't even know I had. Bwa-ha-ha-ha... I had him... in the room... no escape.
I spun around and squnited hard trying to push what little lense is still left on my middle-aged eyeballs together so I could focus in on my prey. In doing so, the untied drawstring of my SouthPark flannel jammies swung down in front of me and caught the attention of my nemesis crouched beneath my bed and waiting for an opportunity to attack. The dangling drawstring was too much for his inferior kitty instincts to resist and he made a leap. I, being the superior being that I am, saw him coming and yanked the drawstrings up and away from his grasp... a brief moment of victory... interrupted by my own shrill girlie scream as his little needle-like teeth clamped into the bottom third of my scrotum.
I grabbed him by the skull and tried pulling him off... let's just say that wasn't satisfactory. I'm jumping around the room with a two pound eleven ounce furry nut-sack piercing that I didn't want, trying to shake it loose. I had a hand on each side of his head trying to alleviate the force of gravity now ripping small tears into areas which should never be "torn". The only thing I could think of was to beat him senseless in hopes he'd go unconcious and lose his grip. I started thrusting my pelvis into the corner of my bed knocking his body into the mattress. It was at this moment that my daughter and her friend burst into the room to discover the source of the commotion and observed me "skull-fucking" her kitten. No point in arguing the matter... it will literally take years of therapy to straighten out this mess and I had a trip to the emergency room in my immediate future. She had her whole life to try to get her medications right.
The paramedics were able to take an ink pen and push on Jiz's jaw to make him release my scrotum... it took longer for them to quit laughing so they could perform this minor maneuver than the procedure itself. The fact that I actually had to go to the hospital in my flannel SouthPark jammies and repeat the story of "how the injury was sustained" twenty-seven fucking times to the muffled snickers of hospital personnel was just adding insult to injury.
I have made numerous trips to the emergency room in my lifetime. Broken leg, broken arm, two broken noses (actually one nose, but broken twice), more stitches than I can count, and a gunshot wound (I knew her husband would come home a day early), and NEVER have I EVER had the nurses or doctors that look like the babes on TV. Never, that is, until now. I'm laying on the table in a room that is about forty five degrees below zero (do I really need to explain Nelson's Fifth Law of Shrinkage) with my junk all neatly framed by clean sheets and in walks a doctor and team of nurses that look like their getting ready to star in some goddamn hairband's video called "Midnight Hooker Nurses" or some lame ass MTV reality show... in fact, that would have been the only way this could have been any better... for my bleeding micro-scrotum to have been stitched up on MTV during sweeps week.
Once the humiliation was over, and I failed in trying to talk the nurses into a lethal dose of morphine to put me out of my pain once and for all, I called my ex wife to come pick me up. Oh yeah... that was a fun conversation.
He who laughs last, laughs best... 10:30 AM this Tuesday... Jiz's nuts are gone. I'm going to have them shellacked, corn row my hair, and wear his little nuts like beads in my braids on either side of my face. Who's laughing now, asswipe!
Satan's Brother, Kelvin
Everyone knows the story of Satan and how God cast him from heaven. But this is the story of Kelvin… Satan's little brother. The biblical version of Kelvin's story, and how God dropped him on his head as an infant, is conspicuously absent in the Bible today. You see, God is to remain infallible. So Kelvin's condition is often blamed on him hanging around the pearly gates eating paint chips off the wrought iron (it's gold paint people… budget cutbacks started sometime after day three of the creation of the earth) or his mom smoking paint thinner during four of the trimesters of her pregnancy while carrying Kelvin. Regardless of how Kelvin became what he is… the fact of the matter is he is cataclysmically slow… monumentally special… he is Texas in the United States of Stupidity.
The stories of Kelvin are like a series of bad jokes that throughout the ages were passed along and enjoyed from generation to generation. However, in modern times, it is not politically correct to find humor in the misfortunes of others… especially in Kelvin's condition… even if he is a fictitious character and the bastard brother to the knight of darkness. I have, however, uncovered one such story and will brave the criticisms of the warm and fuzzy masses to bring it to you now.
The story was found on an ancient scroll, hidden in a dark and musty catacomb in a far away land. Or, I wrote it on some toilet paper while sitting on the pot in my downstairs bathroom. The details are somewhat blurry to me now and I'm on a deadline here… so live with it.
Kelvin had a girlfriend. Her name was Tanbareth… a conglomeration the names of demon seed sucking nag-queens from my own life, if you must know. Tanbareth, in true fashion, was just with Kelvin to get closer to Satan… a position of power and strength. Through this relationship, she came to be in a position of great power in the seven circles of hell. She became a manager of the motor vehicle registration department in Johnson County Kansas. Her personal goal was to provide hell on earth in an eternity of lines, confusing requirements for new vehicle registration and renewals, and incredibly uncomfortable waiting room chairs. Once she was settled into her new position, and gained the requisite thirty-five pounds, she dumped Kelvin.
Kelvin was distraught… mortified… suicidal. The loss of this evil back stabbing bitch was more than he could stand. Although it appears as though he should be happy she's out of his life, I can attest to the fact that it still hurts all the same. He decided to end his own life and reached for the only thing he knew that would bring this goal to the ultimate reality. He pushed aside the .45 caliber ACP loaded with 125 grain soft lead bullets… put the sheet containing thirty-seven hits of acid back into the drawer on his nightstand… unplugged the electro nipple-clamp gift he received from mom on his tenth birthday… and went right for the hard stuff… Poprocks and Coke… the poisonous concoction that is guaranteed to explode your intestines and kill you in a matter of moments in a mind-bending experience of pain and torment.
Ladies and gentlemen… I present to you… Kelvin… Dark Lord of sugary snack foods. May you tremble with fear.
