Last year, Stupid Elderly Baby Sister (SEBS) is to fly over to Las Vegas and meet up with Hubby and for the first time ever meet all the partners/big cahunas and their trophy wives. She is busy all day in town and has a light breakfast: tea and maybe 1/2 bagel. If that much. Then it's noon and time to go to the airport and she is hungry but figures she'll be in Vegas pretty soon and will eat upon arrival. Starves on the plane, lands and gets picked up by Hubby who says they have all just eaten and are to meet over at a casino. SEBS figures she'll get food at the casino. They all have buffets, right? At the casino, inexplicably, there is NO buffet. But there ARE drinks...Lemon Drops to be specific...and they are all going to a show in 1-1/2 hours so she figures she'll be okay even though she will be very hungry by then, but all right. Show starts up and they do not serve food under any circumstances. Who knows why? This is unheard of. SEBS is ravenous by now but the Lemon Drops have helped a bit in making her think she is at least consuming calories. I guess she forgot about that part where the drinks involve alcohol-drenched calories. After the show, SEBS says/demands she really must have something to eat. She has had nothing since early am and it is now about 11 pm. She gets one last Lemon Drop "for the road" and they are in line for a limo when she pretty much crashes. Hubby observes this and bulls his way through the line and gets a limo "NOW". SEBS is placed at a window and a trophy wife is next to her and Hubby is on the other side. SEBS feebly asks Hubby for his drink cup, he hands it to her, she vomits loudly into it and in a prolonged fashion. Dumps the contents out the window and down the door of the limo, "refills" the cup---does this routine about 3 times. Everyone is opening their windows and kind of dry heaving and SEBS thinks she is finally done so she leans toward Hubby to give him back his cup (!!!!) and proceeds to vomit one last time and with great gusto all over trophy wife's lap. SEBS is, sadly, not TOO drunk to fail to want to die of humiliation but, Oh Well! The next day, after spending the night on a (in her very own words) spectacularly clean bathroom floor in the hotel, she has to face these people again for a day-long golfing/shopping fest. She does not know how she got through it.
Then she got to do it all over again (minus the Lemon Drops) this past summer. She knows there just is no way to ever explain anything to them so like good, uptight white people, NO ONE mentions ANYTHING. SEBS doubts there will ever come the day when she won't reflexively cringe with shame every time she has her recurring self-flagellating thought in which she imagines them saying "That poor guy. His wife, you know. But at least he seems to have gotten her to rehab. She doesn't drink at all, anymore....."
Pansy is Just Glad SHE Can Hold HER Booze! Except for when she doesn't.
Friday, January 18, 2008
Mr. Pansy Chainsaw Massacre Story No. 1
It all started a long, long time ago:
Mr. Pansy was clearing out the "cactus patch" in our backyard so the growing children (even though we only had one at the time) would not be impaled and killed while playing. He is out there in the heat of summer in just sandals, short shorts (he was the Last Man On Earth to finally break down and get longer, more stylin' Thug Shorts), sunglasses and his Trusty Chainsaw. Oh, and the ubiquitous can o' beer. He's been working all afternoon and it is coming up on dusk. One last plant to go. He lays into a Century Plant cactus that is ginormous: 8 foot long "tendrils" or whatever the "leaves" are called---and by the time he is done he is slathered from head to toe in cactus pulp and juice on his full frontal and the front half of both "sides". His shorts and sandals are totally soaked through and through. He's done, starts to clean and pack up the chainsaw when he bursts into flame. Not in Real Flames, but in the "my skin is on fire" sense. He runs to the shower and is in there running water full blast on Total Cold and sorta begins screaming. In a manly way, naturally. All of his cactussed skin is ablaze: red and welting up. I call the doctor and explain what little I can about what is up with the screaming man the doctor can hear in the background. Doctor says he'll meet us at the hospital ER.
Off I drive, with a screaming male passenger. I can just imagine how well that scenario would have gone over with the witnesses if our roles had been reversed. I would just dopily smile and shrug my shoulders at the people who were nearby at traffic lights and stop signs. Eventually, I just started running the red lights and stop signs. We get to the hospital and the doctor says that luckily he had just received his latest issue of Sunset magazine. It contained an article about Century Plants. Turns out they are the Most Evil Cousin Ever in the aloe vera plant family. But I am a bit worried about having a doctor who uses fluff home and garden magazines for his continuing medical training. Mr. Pansy essentially had second and third degree chemical burns! He is hosed off with some kind of solution....which the bonus there is now he knows what it feels like to be a street demonstrator being subdued by fire hoses. PLUS, just "to be sure" the doctors/nurses/sadists "treated" his cavities as well with said solution so now he also kinda knows what it feels like to be someone's Jailhouse Bitch.
And finally we are sent home with powdered solution which I am to make into a paste and apply to his burns, including... thankyouverymuchgodwhyme...his "cavities". Penile and rectal. Seriously. I am to apply this paste, let it dry, then rinse it off with ice cold water. I was told to buy ice to make an ice bath for him to help relieve the pain. And then immediately put a new batch of paste on him, let it dry, etc. etc. We drive home, with a stop at the store for ALL the ice in their machine. OH, yeh. And Mr. Pansy is just barely a few decibels below screaming at this point. Because they gave him some Giant Ass (in the ass) Mega Dose Shot of DOPE. Now, just exactly why I was not given same said dope, too, is still quite the sore point for me.
This paste on/paste off routine goes on around the clock for 2 days and 2 nights. He stopped screaming somewhere about halfway through this timeframe. Of course, then we get to do ointments after those first 2 days and finally he gets to go back to work about Day 4. Then his skin starts peeling off. We are talking Alligator Swamp Monster Man. So, be careful about those Century Plants. Seriously.
There are several Mr. Pansy Chainsaw Massacre stories. They always involve sandals, short shorts, sunglasses, dusk, and the ubiquitous can o' beer. He is a near-death riotous source of Pansy Amusement.
If you think he owes me one on this event you would be wrong. Someday I shall tell you his hemorrhoid surgery story. I am sorry if it seems that all Mr. Pansy stories involve his orifices and pain. What can I say? He's just clumsy and slow and I think he gives up and lets "the man" catch him---leaving me to pick up the pieces. Make sure you marry a woman who can rough you up when the going gets rough. Cuz science will one day prove that most men are clumsy and slow! How do you think I, Manned up Pansy, caught Mr. Pansy? hahahahahahhaha!
Mr. Pansy was clearing out the "cactus patch" in our backyard so the growing children (even though we only had one at the time) would not be impaled and killed while playing. He is out there in the heat of summer in just sandals, short shorts (he was the Last Man On Earth to finally break down and get longer, more stylin' Thug Shorts), sunglasses and his Trusty Chainsaw. Oh, and the ubiquitous can o' beer. He's been working all afternoon and it is coming up on dusk. One last plant to go. He lays into a Century Plant cactus that is ginormous: 8 foot long "tendrils" or whatever the "leaves" are called---and by the time he is done he is slathered from head to toe in cactus pulp and juice on his full frontal and the front half of both "sides". His shorts and sandals are totally soaked through and through. He's done, starts to clean and pack up the chainsaw when he bursts into flame. Not in Real Flames, but in the "my skin is on fire" sense. He runs to the shower and is in there running water full blast on Total Cold and sorta begins screaming. In a manly way, naturally. All of his cactussed skin is ablaze: red and welting up. I call the doctor and explain what little I can about what is up with the screaming man the doctor can hear in the background. Doctor says he'll meet us at the hospital ER.
Off I drive, with a screaming male passenger. I can just imagine how well that scenario would have gone over with the witnesses if our roles had been reversed. I would just dopily smile and shrug my shoulders at the people who were nearby at traffic lights and stop signs. Eventually, I just started running the red lights and stop signs. We get to the hospital and the doctor says that luckily he had just received his latest issue of Sunset magazine. It contained an article about Century Plants. Turns out they are the Most Evil Cousin Ever in the aloe vera plant family. But I am a bit worried about having a doctor who uses fluff home and garden magazines for his continuing medical training. Mr. Pansy essentially had second and third degree chemical burns! He is hosed off with some kind of solution....which the bonus there is now he knows what it feels like to be a street demonstrator being subdued by fire hoses. PLUS, just "to be sure" the doctors/nurses/sadists "treated" his cavities as well with said solution so now he also kinda knows what it feels like to be someone's Jailhouse Bitch.
And finally we are sent home with powdered solution which I am to make into a paste and apply to his burns, including... thankyouverymuchgodwhyme...his "cavities". Penile and rectal. Seriously. I am to apply this paste, let it dry, then rinse it off with ice cold water. I was told to buy ice to make an ice bath for him to help relieve the pain. And then immediately put a new batch of paste on him, let it dry, etc. etc. We drive home, with a stop at the store for ALL the ice in their machine. OH, yeh. And Mr. Pansy is just barely a few decibels below screaming at this point. Because they gave him some Giant Ass (in the ass) Mega Dose Shot of DOPE. Now, just exactly why I was not given same said dope, too, is still quite the sore point for me.
This paste on/paste off routine goes on around the clock for 2 days and 2 nights. He stopped screaming somewhere about halfway through this timeframe. Of course, then we get to do ointments after those first 2 days and finally he gets to go back to work about Day 4. Then his skin starts peeling off. We are talking Alligator Swamp Monster Man. So, be careful about those Century Plants. Seriously.
There are several Mr. Pansy Chainsaw Massacre stories. They always involve sandals, short shorts, sunglasses, dusk, and the ubiquitous can o' beer. He is a near-death riotous source of Pansy Amusement.
If you think he owes me one on this event you would be wrong. Someday I shall tell you his hemorrhoid surgery story. I am sorry if it seems that all Mr. Pansy stories involve his orifices and pain. What can I say? He's just clumsy and slow and I think he gives up and lets "the man" catch him---leaving me to pick up the pieces. Make sure you marry a woman who can rough you up when the going gets rough. Cuz science will one day prove that most men are clumsy and slow! How do you think I, Manned up Pansy, caught Mr. Pansy? hahahahahahhaha!
Pansy's Manned Up Kayak Wreck
I had arthroscopic knee surgery on 1/11/08 and have been high as a kite since then. Someone I know asked me for the details behind how I hurt my knee and said "make it PG rated." What kind of stupid fucking half-assed request is that!? PG rated!? Pansy don't play THAT game, ya idjits! But I attempted to be cooperative (obviously must have been high on crack that day). I was going to unclean it up here but decided you can all just suffer with the "pg" version, too. Actually, it is a PG rated incident. To re-tell the story, however, is painful for me unless I throw in some terrible language. So imagine that many of the words are "f__ing" (see? pretending to be PG right there!) and you will get the drift of how annoying this incident was then as well as in the intervening years since my bad knee has "popped out" at least twice a year since the original injury.
HOW TO BE A PANSY AND WRECK YOUR KNEE WITH YOUR KAYAK LIKE A REAL MAN:
1) I was hauling my F__ racing kayak back upstream in about July 1997 to go back through some F__ rapids;
2) my F__ right leg slipped on the F__ slippery, F__ slimey, F__ algae-covered F__ river rocks;
3) by the time the F__ slip/fall was over I was up to my F_ neck in the F__ river with my F__ leg bent F_ backwards and toward the inside (to the left) in The Most F__ Unnatural Position F_ Possible and
4) hanging onto my F__ kayak and F__ paddle for dear F__ life while
5) swimming one-F__-legged and one-F__-armed to the F__ shore.
Once I was back ashore, I then had to personally and all alone:
1) reinstall my F__ leg to "straightness" (a skill for which I have absolutely no prior F__ training but there ya F__ go)----what I did was shove "downward" from hip toward the knee and after 3 tries it grotesquely and quite visually snapped back into place;
2) then get in the F__ kayak and paddle for about 4 F__ miles;
3) get OUT of the F_ kayak;
4) haul the F_ kayak up a F_ steep embankment;
5) F_load the F_ kayak on my F__ Dodge Caravan;
6) drive to my F_ house;
7) unload the F__ kayak;
8) drive my F__ self to the F_ emergency room.
Mr. Pansy was at work and the girls were at home with a babysitter.
I knew it was permanently injured but you have to play the insurance jump-through-F__-hoops games and I was too F___ physically fit and still ambulatory (even though my F__ leg/knee was swollen like a F__ soccer ball was in there) so "the man" has made me suffer ever since until finally on Christmas Eve 2007 as I was attempting to get up off the carpeting my knee twisted out of place. That "Christmas Eve Twist" turned out be The Last Dance. The knee became permanently half-cocked due to a loose piece of cartilege or something jamming it from being able to be fully straightened out. Plus there are "multiple" tears in the meniscus. So now I finally qualified for an MRI and even I could see that there was no getting out of surgery for the old nag's knee. Or they were gonna have to put me down. [whinnies nervously]. I was prepared to have to bite down on a towel while the doc yanked my leg back into place. [rolls eyes wildly, stacatto braying]. As it was he just yanked on my hair and yelled "giddyup". [noisily nickering]. I got to crutch up 2 flights of stairs at the doctor's office due to a rainstorm killing the power in his building as well as all over the area. Except our house for goddam once!
After getting referred to the surgeon, I begged the surgeon to call some other patient, cancel their surgery and put me in NOW. He blatantly refused. Something about ethics. So he did his best by scheduling me for 5:30 fucking A.M. on Friday 1/11/08. What a bastard. Fortunately, my surgery date worked with my upcoming parties schedule or I would be really royally pissed off. He was pleased that I already knew that once the surgery is done my knee is FIXED and that I intend to make it do its job. Which is to kick ass. He said I could begin kicking ass after 2weeks...as in that's when I can begin physical therapy.
The Silver Lining: it was convenient going in to see my primary physician with my leg half-cocked up in the air since it saved some time positioning me for a full-cocked examination. And then I found out that he is a carpenter on the side when he rolled me over to my right(even though I prefer being rolled over to my left) before nailing me good and hard. It was a bit more romantic than prior times, due to the use of candles and flashlights. After I gathered my clothing I wasn't too dazzled to forget to pick up the money he usually leaves on the countertop. This time it was a $5 bill with a picture of Bill Clinton on it! I hope the surgeon is as generous.
Vicodin brings the annoyance/pain level down to about 6. Cheap ass surgeon would NOT give me a post-surgery heroin drip. But I finally have a fixed knee so I don't anticipate too much angst during rehab. Except for that F___ part where I got F__ jobbed out of finishing my F___ 8,000 miles on my bicycle (by a mere 209 F___ miles) for 2007. But I'm not fucking bitter. And at least my legs bend enough for Mr. Pansy's examinations.
Now do I got you totally convinced at how Fucking Manned-up I really are?
HOW TO BE A PANSY AND WRECK YOUR KNEE WITH YOUR KAYAK LIKE A REAL MAN:
1) I was hauling my F__ racing kayak back upstream in about July 1997 to go back through some F__ rapids;
2) my F__ right leg slipped on the F__ slippery, F__ slimey, F__ algae-covered F__ river rocks;
3) by the time the F__ slip/fall was over I was up to my F_ neck in the F__ river with my F__ leg bent F_ backwards and toward the inside (to the left) in The Most F__ Unnatural Position F_ Possible and
4) hanging onto my F__ kayak and F__ paddle for dear F__ life while
5) swimming one-F__-legged and one-F__-armed to the F__ shore.
Once I was back ashore, I then had to personally and all alone:
1) reinstall my F__ leg to "straightness" (a skill for which I have absolutely no prior F__ training but there ya F__ go)----what I did was shove "downward" from hip toward the knee and after 3 tries it grotesquely and quite visually snapped back into place;
2) then get in the F__ kayak and paddle for about 4 F__ miles;
3) get OUT of the F_ kayak;
4) haul the F_ kayak up a F_ steep embankment;
5) F_load the F_ kayak on my F__ Dodge Caravan;
6) drive to my F_ house;
7) unload the F__ kayak;
8) drive my F__ self to the F_ emergency room.
Mr. Pansy was at work and the girls were at home with a babysitter.
I knew it was permanently injured but you have to play the insurance jump-through-F__-hoops games and I was too F___ physically fit and still ambulatory (even though my F__ leg/knee was swollen like a F__ soccer ball was in there) so "the man" has made me suffer ever since until finally on Christmas Eve 2007 as I was attempting to get up off the carpeting my knee twisted out of place. That "Christmas Eve Twist" turned out be The Last Dance. The knee became permanently half-cocked due to a loose piece of cartilege or something jamming it from being able to be fully straightened out. Plus there are "multiple" tears in the meniscus. So now I finally qualified for an MRI and even I could see that there was no getting out of surgery for the old nag's knee. Or they were gonna have to put me down. [whinnies nervously]. I was prepared to have to bite down on a towel while the doc yanked my leg back into place. [rolls eyes wildly, stacatto braying]. As it was he just yanked on my hair and yelled "giddyup". [noisily nickering]. I got to crutch up 2 flights of stairs at the doctor's office due to a rainstorm killing the power in his building as well as all over the area. Except our house for goddam once!
After getting referred to the surgeon, I begged the surgeon to call some other patient, cancel their surgery and put me in NOW. He blatantly refused. Something about ethics. So he did his best by scheduling me for 5:30 fucking A.M. on Friday 1/11/08. What a bastard. Fortunately, my surgery date worked with my upcoming parties schedule or I would be really royally pissed off. He was pleased that I already knew that once the surgery is done my knee is FIXED and that I intend to make it do its job. Which is to kick ass. He said I could begin kicking ass after 2weeks...as in that's when I can begin physical therapy.
The Silver Lining: it was convenient going in to see my primary physician with my leg half-cocked up in the air since it saved some time positioning me for a full-cocked examination. And then I found out that he is a carpenter on the side when he rolled me over to my right(even though I prefer being rolled over to my left) before nailing me good and hard. It was a bit more romantic than prior times, due to the use of candles and flashlights. After I gathered my clothing I wasn't too dazzled to forget to pick up the money he usually leaves on the countertop. This time it was a $5 bill with a picture of Bill Clinton on it! I hope the surgeon is as generous.
Vicodin brings the annoyance/pain level down to about 6. Cheap ass surgeon would NOT give me a post-surgery heroin drip. But I finally have a fixed knee so I don't anticipate too much angst during rehab. Except for that F___ part where I got F__ jobbed out of finishing my F___ 8,000 miles on my bicycle (by a mere 209 F___ miles) for 2007. But I'm not fucking bitter. And at least my legs bend enough for Mr. Pansy's examinations.
Now do I got you totally convinced at how Fucking Manned-up I really are?
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Where There is Smoke On The Water...Go For It!
Once upon a time, long, long ago:
FLASHBACK TO UC DAVIS DAYS: Mr. Pansy and I were moving, which for some reason called for ingesting a mind-altering substance and while we were engaged in a PDA (private display of affection) -- which often happens after ingesting such a substance -- I suddenly was struck with the certain knowledge that if I let myself have the orgasm that was coming I was going to die from it (I suspect the substance made me falsely believe that) and I actually insisted we stop the PDA. And Mr. Pansy did! This guy is amazing. He still lives with me to this day. I have not had any regrets because, after all, that orgasm WAS going to kill me I am certain but I HAVE recalled it over the years and sure missed it----- it was going to be THAT good.
FLASHFORWARD TO JAMAICA, 2000: That year when we hit the beach we found a lady on a raft in possession of some "smoke on the water." Some of it got into my lungs. This was a problem as it has been 30 years of substance abstinence for me and I had absolutely no tolerance built up, so it was quite effective on me. This sure ain't your father's weed! But, much like your father's weed, we had to quickly go to our room for some PDA and I FOUND THE LOST ORGASM!! And so did Mr. Pansy and he didn't even know he had lost one! I faced death down this time because frankly what better way to die than while having THE orgasm in Jamaica!!!??? Woweee! Not Maui Wowie, way much better!
The best part of Jamaica is the nonstop, as much as you want it, uninterrupted sex. So we decided to find our limits, which came (a sex pun!) to a pleasantly dehydrated conclusion after 4 days and 18 experiments. It occurs to me that it has been a few years now and it is probable that the Pansys need to perform new tests and update the data.
Now picture this whole story being experienced by someone old enough to be your grandmother. A slutty grandmother but still and all.....Makes you want to yell "Blind me now, God! Please!" don't it? Sometimes the truth hurts....others. hahaahaha.
Signed,
Holy Mother of God!
(I believe that's what Mr. Pansy yelled out during the experiments. Even if it's not true, I am still a believer!!)
FLASHBACK TO UC DAVIS DAYS: Mr. Pansy and I were moving, which for some reason called for ingesting a mind-altering substance and while we were engaged in a PDA (private display of affection) -- which often happens after ingesting such a substance -- I suddenly was struck with the certain knowledge that if I let myself have the orgasm that was coming I was going to die from it (I suspect the substance made me falsely believe that) and I actually insisted we stop the PDA. And Mr. Pansy did! This guy is amazing. He still lives with me to this day. I have not had any regrets because, after all, that orgasm WAS going to kill me I am certain but I HAVE recalled it over the years and sure missed it----- it was going to be THAT good.
FLASHFORWARD TO JAMAICA, 2000: That year when we hit the beach we found a lady on a raft in possession of some "smoke on the water." Some of it got into my lungs. This was a problem as it has been 30 years of substance abstinence for me and I had absolutely no tolerance built up, so it was quite effective on me. This sure ain't your father's weed! But, much like your father's weed, we had to quickly go to our room for some PDA and I FOUND THE LOST ORGASM!! And so did Mr. Pansy and he didn't even know he had lost one! I faced death down this time because frankly what better way to die than while having THE orgasm in Jamaica!!!??? Woweee! Not Maui Wowie, way much better!
The best part of Jamaica is the nonstop, as much as you want it, uninterrupted sex. So we decided to find our limits, which came (a sex pun!) to a pleasantly dehydrated conclusion after 4 days and 18 experiments. It occurs to me that it has been a few years now and it is probable that the Pansys need to perform new tests and update the data.
Now picture this whole story being experienced by someone old enough to be your grandmother. A slutty grandmother but still and all.....Makes you want to yell "Blind me now, God! Please!" don't it? Sometimes the truth hurts....others. hahaahaha.
Signed,
Holy Mother of God!
(I believe that's what Mr. Pansy yelled out during the experiments. Even if it's not true, I am still a believer!!)
Second Up In The Pansy Stories Chronicles/Jogger
ONCE UPON A TIME, but not very long, long ago:
Mr. Pansy and I were bicycle riding the weekend before Halloween 2007 and passed ONCE AGAIN the female jogger of Great Boobage. Mr. Stupid Blind Mole Pansy missed the sight again! So I, of course, have to graphically describe her for him, which was difficult since I only got a fleeting glance at her as it was: She has about 98 pounds of body weight---34% are in her chestial zone. Her overall body is quite slender with femininely defined musculature. Slender thighs that do not touch each other on their inside edges. And they were covered in exercise-induced moisture as well as the somewhat overly damp short shorts she was wearing. The short shorts were, to be more accurate, clinging to her cougar's cameltoe and hip extensors/abductors. I think she would have appreciated someone removing the frontal wedgie she was suffering from. She also was wearing a really large serious subdue-those-puppies sports bra that was inadequate. Huge, round (I said: HUGE, ROUND) mounds are sticking up, out, and above as well as out and below the edges of said overwhelmed sports bra. Huge, round, sweaty mounds. Glistening like dew kissed, genetically engineered cantaloupes, with rivulets of moisture trickling down into the crevasses between the snowy white moguls. And more moisture is slowly gliding down from below the humps sticking out beneath the bottom strap of the sports bra that is screaming in pain from its burdens. There were individually extended nipply pores/ridges visible through the cloth, practically casting shadows of their own. At this point in my narrative, Mr. Pansy said he had a cramp and needed to turn around "right now". But then he gave himself away when he said that while on his way home with the alleged cramp that he hoped to catch a glimpse of "Rivulets". I cut him off at the pass and we continued riding away from the scene of carnality. The cutting was not permanent or disfiguring but he won't be carnalianing anything for awhile. I am not sure he could endure the imagery if I had gotten a REALLY good look at her. She/them was impressive I must say. They did not wiggle around. I will agree that they are not TOO huge but they are definitely NOT a polite size. Mr. Pansy now "always" wants to go for a bike ride. Oh, and OF COURSE she has high maintenance blonde hair and is not unattractive. She did not have on enough makeup to be blatant but I suspect she uses shading and fancy techniques to improve her appearance. At about 5'5" she is a bit too tall to be a true spinner.
First Up: Fishwife Bueller's Day Off
FISHWIFE BUELLER'S DAY OFF
Once upon a time, long, long ago:
So. It's an exciting thing: Eric Buell is coming to California for a "limited edition" ride! Fucking Who? Fucking What? Eric Buell is a motorcycle racer/designer. He worked for Harley Davidson R&D for years, was a hotshot racer in a certain category of motorcycles (I am going to guess the 1500 cc class). Then, he went off on his own to develop his own Super 1500cc bike under his own label. Did really well. Then motorcycling decided for no reason to "cancel" the 1500cc category. Perhaps forever. I don't know. That's too much techno "boy stuff" for me to care about/remember. But Harley still likes Eric and invited him back to continue making his kind of bike funded by Harley but with "Buell" as the motorcycle model name. The Pansys, one of them being an actual real boy, were intrigued. Especially by the unprecedented opportunity to go to your local Harley dealership and you can test ride a Buell. Wow! We were already on Harley #3 by then so our dealer naturally has no issues with US test riding the Buell. Pansy, mother extraordinaire whose credo has and will always be "I have children to live for", took that little bad boy out and sped at horridly unsafe speeds all over the delta roads, lowlying foothill roads and such. I mean she was SPEEDING. Mr. Pansy did, too. We bought a Buell. With the usual caveat: if you foolishly crash this bike and don't get killed I will kill you for foolishly crashing. Naturally, this purchase led to many "fights" over who got to ride the Buell on each motorcycle ride thereafter. We eventually agreed to switch off, several times, during each ride. An attorney at my job saw it and excitedly asked me what all we had done to the bike to customize it. I said "we took it out of the box and put gasoline in it." It was hot looking and "hot" but only in a Harley way. Suzukis, Hondas, etc. of course are WAY faster, more sophisticated, etc. but this is a Harley.
Anyway, then comes news that Eric Buell is doing a nationwide tour to promote his bike and there is going to be a Ride With Eric in the Santa Cruz mountains. Something like only 5 rides nationwide are being set up. And each one will be limited to the first 100 Buell owners to sign up. I excitedly call the phone number at the crack of dawn and some fool actually sleepily answers the phone. I screech that we must sign up but that we only have 1 Buell between us plus Road Kings and can the Road King come along since we switch off the Buell? They hem and haw and finally say "okay." YES! I arrange for marathon babysitters since even with my perfect children the teenage babysitters will burn out after too many hours and we are going to be gone from before dawn until long after dark. 3 babysitters (!!!) are scheduled, prepaid, with contact telephone numbers between them all and backups for unforseen emergencies.
Finally, at long last, Ride Day arrives. I am up, scampering around getting into my best clothes and Mr. Pansy......Mr. Pansy finally drags his stupid ass self to the toilet and announces, while rubbing his lower abdomen in a disgusting manner, "I am sick." SICK? Fucking Sick? On MY day of Riding With Eric? After all the babysitter arrangements? After all my wardrobe hysterics? SICK? I go through a Salvador Dali mind meltdown and declare "I am getting the babysitter anyway since she's already paid for." I pick her up since Mr. Pansy is "too sick" to care for the children anyway and then tell him I am going to go the Harley store to "see" if anyone is there to ride down with. I get on the BUELL and go to the store. Of course, no one is there but I am not wasting my efforts to Ride With Eric just because Mr. Pansy is fucking ass SICK. So I come home, tell him I am heading down to Santa Cruz and wish him a nice day. He is too weakened to protest very much. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn't. The BUELL was too noisy as I roared off for me to hear him.
As I race down to Santa Cruz (nervous that I might miss the start up at 9am) various bikers come onto the freeway and ride "with me" but they all exited before my turnoff so I am basically alone all the way down to Santa Cruz. Which was odd since on the way to most motorcycle rides you hook up with riders as you go along. That makes me nervouser. I stopped once for gas to make sure I was fueled and ready before I got there. A bunch of guys are at the gas station but none of them are going to the Buell thing. They are just on ratty old hogs. But they decide to escort me anyway. Yeh. Right. If they had "other" plans the blazing look in my eyes when I said there was no way and nothing getting in my way of Riding With Eric put a cold chill into their hearts/loins. They stop at some greasy spoon and want me to join them but I say No, I got Eric waiting for me. And I roar off. A lot like that chick on the e-insurance ads. I finally get to the Santa Cruz meeting spot. No one is there! I try not to freak out. I then realize I am.....Oh only a fucking 1-1/2 hours early! I guess my "don't be late" plan worked like a charm. Eventually people start showing up. After awhile something becomes exceedingly obvious to me: can you imagine Pansy not having realized what she has signed up for? I mean, Really. What was I thinking?! Buells are crotch rockets. Who buys crotch rockets? BOYS. Yes. I am fucking the only fucking female in the fucking crowd of 100 BOYS and their fucking Buells. Oh, I was fucking over the moon!
Finally, I find the owner and a couple muckitymucks from my local Harley dealership there with their Buells. I tear into them when I learn they TRAILERED their bikes down there the day before and had stayed at a bed-n-breakfast. I screech that I had to ride alone. And that I can smell the fucking quiche on their breath across the fucking parking lot. I loudly declare them to be trailer trash to the crowd. I shred them mercilessly. What fucking punks!
Then I become cognizant that the groups I am standing nearest are: on my left the Christian Motorcycle Club and on my right (hand to heart, swear on a Bible) real honest-to-God colors-wearing Live Hells Angels. I bust out laughing and introduce myself to them all as "fishwife" (it's in silver letters like cowboys wear on their belts but mine are across the back of my leather jacket) and that my race name is "ohgoditsmom" and that this is just too fine: here I am....MOM halfway between Heaven and Hell! And, since the Hell's Angels----every fucking one of them---were extremely Pretty Boys, young, virile, muscular, totally under the radar with their snappy hairdos, etc. I declare them to be just a buncha puppies and demand to know where the fuck the Real Hell's Angels are. And the entire 100-person crowd quickly divvies up into groups of: "hate her" "scared of her" "maybe like her but still scared". Why does no one ever give a little credit for "wild adrenalin-crazed woman" around me? We get the pre-ride chitchat from the organizers including meeting Eric Buell and then line up, self-seeding. Like in races, big rides, etc. less experienced participants go to the rear. I am no fool. I get in the back. Those fucking two-faced Christians were directly ahead of me but then pulled up a few groups' worth of spots to get away from me. Directly behind me are the Hell's Angels because they are too cool for the room. And they back off a tad. Way behind them are the sag trucks. And we are all OFF!
We had been warned about decreasing radius hairpin turns and to really take them easy. I am doing okay but eventually, even though I was being Careful, I actually find myself going too hot into a turn and I am headed for high-side crash. Really. Quickly gulping air and setting my jaw so I don't bite my tongue off when I crash I force myself to squeeze the tank with my lithe, muscular, feminine, smooth thighs and lean way into the curve and ride like a boy. I live through it! But in the lack-of-practice way of all greenhorns I let off the clutch a bit too fast and peeled out and squeal up the road to the top of that particular climb. The tires squealed, not me. I was quite cotton-mouthed. I pull off to the side of the road to wait for some of the adrenalin puke to go back down my gullet and take a swig of water and just generally try not to black out. The entire herd of Hell's Angels also pulls over and get off their bikes and swarm me saying "that was hot." "you can really ride." "wow." Seriously. I laugh even more and explain that I am just about passing out. Then I demanded to know why they fucking disrespect their elders so fucking much.....stealing their grandpa's colors while he was passed out and all. They laugh and laugh and, of course, adopt me. We rode together the rest of the day and stopped at the rest stops and had lunch together. They also became my paparazzi. At the rest stops they were just dreadful....slamming down Sports fucking Drinks. I swore ferociously at them, loudly of course, about how they were destroying decades' worth of Hell's Angel rep and to stop that. More yuks. Crowd stares from a safe distance. At one rest stop it was so warm all the boys were tearing off their clothes so they can ride in their wife-beaters (some went topless entirely) and I chide them, all motherly-like: "you're gonna be fucking freezing in 12 miles and don't come whining to me that your nipples are all chapped and crap like that." And, yes, 12-15 miles later they all, to a nipply-man, stopped and dressed again. I did not try very hard to stay out of their faces at that rest stop. They loved it. You know they did.
The ride was organized like a bicycle century ride: arrows pointing where to turn on the course, etc. And it was kinda tricky except for a serious cyclist like myself who knows those tricks. The goal for every rider was to get as close to the actual ride route mileage as possible and you get a prize. And there were other prizes for other categories but we did not know what those categories were.
During the ride I change clothes several times. Which is fucking hard to do on a bike with no saddlebags beyond a tiny little windshield bag and a miniature storage space under the saddle. I had about 5 t-shirts on. First one was "Fish Hard, Die Free" with a big skeleton-fish on a chopper (me); second one was a Road King "Gotta Have One" (me); third one was "Nobody's Old Lady" long-haired woman on a big hog bike (me); fourth one was my all-time favorite "Hello Boys" in silver letters (really me even though I am 1000% monogamous); and the last one was a bathing suit that has dozens of small neon-colored fish all over it (me except I prefer red). And I had a pink glitter Barbie tutu which I only wore with the bathing suit "finale". I changed clothes every 25 miles.
Now, I need my calories when I am hyped on adrenalin.....which you surely realize I was off the adren-o-meter this day what with all those boys and Angels. And, I had paid for two lunches. So I hogged down my lunch (lumberjack size meal for Manly Buell Riders) PLUS I then loudly demanded Mr. Pansy's lunch as well. They were actually "thinking it over" until they realized "Duh. It's paid for. Just give it to her, maybe she'll shut up. Or talk more and louder." I vacuumed that lunch down, too. And needed a couple more drinks as well. People began to watch me and make bets. I think. A half-hour after I have eaten, in rolls my local Harley dealership homies. They had gotten lost, one had crashed, they were bummed. I lit into them but good at which the crowd then divvied up into: "totally scared of her but we can't stop watching this train wreck" and "love her even though she is fucking crazy".
It's now award time. Just plaques for various things like: rider who had closest to correct mileage; rider who rode furthest to attend this gathering; rider with most tricked-out Buell, etc. Eric saves one for "last". I think he did it on purpose. It was "Will Ride For Food". Now, who or how or why this category got thought up, I have no idea. I guess there is always a food hog in every crowd? But there was no question in ANYONE'S mind who the fuck deserved THAT plaque. The crowd is pointing at me and shouting "Her! Her! Her!" Eric spies me, does a double take with the pink tutu/neon pink fish getup and says: "I will give you this plaque. But first, you have got to explain that outfit." Crowd howls and howls and howls.
In one of my More Proud Moments Of Spontaneous Combustion I said:
"Well, Eric. You might not know this, but there isn't a girl alive who didn't want to grow up to become a ......"
wait for it.......wait for it.........can't you guess????
"BUELLERINA. "
The crowd actually rioted and threw food at me, at each other, on Eric, etc. Now I have to fucking pack my trophy and all my clothes for the ride home. But I manage to do so, even over that stuffed porkbelly of mine. The Angels ride with me to make sure I get the right freeways home, even though they have to go out of their way (they were from Oakland). I am ripping home at, well.....a high rate of speed....when suddenly JUST LIKE THEY WARN YOU ABOUT.....a car towing a boat just ahead of me and one lane over to my right had the cowling from the boat's outboard motor blow off and it came rolling and tumbling into MY lane. I touch the brakes with 3 fingers......deliberately disobeying the Factory Recommendation of No More Than 2 Fingers (I'm lying about the 2 fingers)....and that bike slammed down to 90mph in a split second. At least I now knew the brakes are very efficient. Fortunately, the cowling stopped tumbling at the right hand edge of my lane. Because I was in the fast lane and only had a nasty, loose-surfaced meridian as my "out". I guess it is true: speed kills. So I slowed down to 65mph for the rest of the ride home.
By the end of my exciting day I had racked up 500 miles, essentially alone. And made new friends. And had a total blast. I'm just glad I lived through it. Somewhere in Oakland is a Bad Boy with my turquoise scarf. Yeh, and they got Big Red Lipstick smoochies, too.
It was one of only about 3 times I have ever been totally without Mr. Pansy or the kids.
THE REST OF THE STORY:
One of the main organizers of the Buell event told me he made certain to find me toward the end of the event to personally thank me for my attendance and behavior. They had actually been upset when the Angels showed up and weren't quite sure how they were going to handle any "untoward" incidents and yet they couldn't be "uncool" either. And then evidently I shocked the pants off of the organizers since now they knew they were definitely going to have to eventually call in all the authorities and a Life Flight Ambulance. They just didn't know at what hour it was all going to go down. When they saw how clever I was, and still alive, as the day went on (they kept in touch via ham radio the whole time from station to station) and that I could even actually FUCKING RIDE my Buell.....well, I was/am to this day their Personal Hero Queen Idiot. We went to their next Buell ride a year later in Jackson, CA. Mr. Pansy was well that day. Dammit.
The other most precious factoid: you know it is true that men have ego/testosterone/etc. issues. And they do feel the need to compete/compensate with each other via their "toys".....such as Corvetttes, hot machines of any sort, gold chains/bling, crotch rockets, etc. The crowd that day was, to a man....EVERY ONE OF THEM WAS NO TALLER THAN 5'7". Excepting the main ride coordinator, the owner of "my" Harley dealership and ME---the most Manned Up Woman in the universe and you fucking know I am THAT. I was taller than my usual 5'8" since I was wearing my hottest, highest-heeled Tony Lama cowgirl boots that put me at a squidge under 6' tall. My shoutout to the crowd as I roared away to go home was "It's Been A Privilege. Peace out, Pygmies!"
Signed,
Amazon Amongst The Pygmies
p.s. I don't care if Mr. Pansy had the opportunity to also have the Time Of His Life with those 3 babysitters--because I know he didn't. Poor sickly 1000% monogamous baby.
Once upon a time, long, long ago:
So. It's an exciting thing: Eric Buell is coming to California for a "limited edition" ride! Fucking Who? Fucking What? Eric Buell is a motorcycle racer/designer. He worked for Harley Davidson R&D for years, was a hotshot racer in a certain category of motorcycles (I am going to guess the 1500 cc class). Then, he went off on his own to develop his own Super 1500cc bike under his own label. Did really well. Then motorcycling decided for no reason to "cancel" the 1500cc category. Perhaps forever. I don't know. That's too much techno "boy stuff" for me to care about/remember. But Harley still likes Eric and invited him back to continue making his kind of bike funded by Harley but with "Buell" as the motorcycle model name. The Pansys, one of them being an actual real boy, were intrigued. Especially by the unprecedented opportunity to go to your local Harley dealership and you can test ride a Buell. Wow! We were already on Harley #3 by then so our dealer naturally has no issues with US test riding the Buell. Pansy, mother extraordinaire whose credo has and will always be "I have children to live for", took that little bad boy out and sped at horridly unsafe speeds all over the delta roads, lowlying foothill roads and such. I mean she was SPEEDING. Mr. Pansy did, too. We bought a Buell. With the usual caveat: if you foolishly crash this bike and don't get killed I will kill you for foolishly crashing. Naturally, this purchase led to many "fights" over who got to ride the Buell on each motorcycle ride thereafter. We eventually agreed to switch off, several times, during each ride. An attorney at my job saw it and excitedly asked me what all we had done to the bike to customize it. I said "we took it out of the box and put gasoline in it." It was hot looking and "hot" but only in a Harley way. Suzukis, Hondas, etc. of course are WAY faster, more sophisticated, etc. but this is a Harley.
Anyway, then comes news that Eric Buell is doing a nationwide tour to promote his bike and there is going to be a Ride With Eric in the Santa Cruz mountains. Something like only 5 rides nationwide are being set up. And each one will be limited to the first 100 Buell owners to sign up. I excitedly call the phone number at the crack of dawn and some fool actually sleepily answers the phone. I screech that we must sign up but that we only have 1 Buell between us plus Road Kings and can the Road King come along since we switch off the Buell? They hem and haw and finally say "okay." YES! I arrange for marathon babysitters since even with my perfect children the teenage babysitters will burn out after too many hours and we are going to be gone from before dawn until long after dark. 3 babysitters (!!!) are scheduled, prepaid, with contact telephone numbers between them all and backups for unforseen emergencies.
Finally, at long last, Ride Day arrives. I am up, scampering around getting into my best clothes and Mr. Pansy......Mr. Pansy finally drags his stupid ass self to the toilet and announces, while rubbing his lower abdomen in a disgusting manner, "I am sick." SICK? Fucking Sick? On MY day of Riding With Eric? After all the babysitter arrangements? After all my wardrobe hysterics? SICK? I go through a Salvador Dali mind meltdown and declare "I am getting the babysitter anyway since she's already paid for." I pick her up since Mr. Pansy is "too sick" to care for the children anyway and then tell him I am going to go the Harley store to "see" if anyone is there to ride down with. I get on the BUELL and go to the store. Of course, no one is there but I am not wasting my efforts to Ride With Eric just because Mr. Pansy is fucking ass SICK. So I come home, tell him I am heading down to Santa Cruz and wish him a nice day. He is too weakened to protest very much. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn't. The BUELL was too noisy as I roared off for me to hear him.
As I race down to Santa Cruz (nervous that I might miss the start up at 9am) various bikers come onto the freeway and ride "with me" but they all exited before my turnoff so I am basically alone all the way down to Santa Cruz. Which was odd since on the way to most motorcycle rides you hook up with riders as you go along. That makes me nervouser. I stopped once for gas to make sure I was fueled and ready before I got there. A bunch of guys are at the gas station but none of them are going to the Buell thing. They are just on ratty old hogs. But they decide to escort me anyway. Yeh. Right. If they had "other" plans the blazing look in my eyes when I said there was no way and nothing getting in my way of Riding With Eric put a cold chill into their hearts/loins. They stop at some greasy spoon and want me to join them but I say No, I got Eric waiting for me. And I roar off. A lot like that chick on the e-insurance ads. I finally get to the Santa Cruz meeting spot. No one is there! I try not to freak out. I then realize I am.....Oh only a fucking 1-1/2 hours early! I guess my "don't be late" plan worked like a charm. Eventually people start showing up. After awhile something becomes exceedingly obvious to me: can you imagine Pansy not having realized what she has signed up for? I mean, Really. What was I thinking?! Buells are crotch rockets. Who buys crotch rockets? BOYS. Yes. I am fucking the only fucking female in the fucking crowd of 100 BOYS and their fucking Buells. Oh, I was fucking over the moon!
Finally, I find the owner and a couple muckitymucks from my local Harley dealership there with their Buells. I tear into them when I learn they TRAILERED their bikes down there the day before and had stayed at a bed-n-breakfast. I screech that I had to ride alone. And that I can smell the fucking quiche on their breath across the fucking parking lot. I loudly declare them to be trailer trash to the crowd. I shred them mercilessly. What fucking punks!
Then I become cognizant that the groups I am standing nearest are: on my left the Christian Motorcycle Club and on my right (hand to heart, swear on a Bible) real honest-to-God colors-wearing Live Hells Angels. I bust out laughing and introduce myself to them all as "fishwife" (it's in silver letters like cowboys wear on their belts but mine are across the back of my leather jacket) and that my race name is "ohgoditsmom" and that this is just too fine: here I am....MOM halfway between Heaven and Hell! And, since the Hell's Angels----every fucking one of them---were extremely Pretty Boys, young, virile, muscular, totally under the radar with their snappy hairdos, etc. I declare them to be just a buncha puppies and demand to know where the fuck the Real Hell's Angels are. And the entire 100-person crowd quickly divvies up into groups of: "hate her" "scared of her" "maybe like her but still scared". Why does no one ever give a little credit for "wild adrenalin-crazed woman" around me? We get the pre-ride chitchat from the organizers including meeting Eric Buell and then line up, self-seeding. Like in races, big rides, etc. less experienced participants go to the rear. I am no fool. I get in the back. Those fucking two-faced Christians were directly ahead of me but then pulled up a few groups' worth of spots to get away from me. Directly behind me are the Hell's Angels because they are too cool for the room. And they back off a tad. Way behind them are the sag trucks. And we are all OFF!
We had been warned about decreasing radius hairpin turns and to really take them easy. I am doing okay but eventually, even though I was being Careful, I actually find myself going too hot into a turn and I am headed for high-side crash. Really. Quickly gulping air and setting my jaw so I don't bite my tongue off when I crash I force myself to squeeze the tank with my lithe, muscular, feminine, smooth thighs and lean way into the curve and ride like a boy. I live through it! But in the lack-of-practice way of all greenhorns I let off the clutch a bit too fast and peeled out and squeal up the road to the top of that particular climb. The tires squealed, not me. I was quite cotton-mouthed. I pull off to the side of the road to wait for some of the adrenalin puke to go back down my gullet and take a swig of water and just generally try not to black out. The entire herd of Hell's Angels also pulls over and get off their bikes and swarm me saying "that was hot." "you can really ride." "wow." Seriously. I laugh even more and explain that I am just about passing out. Then I demanded to know why they fucking disrespect their elders so fucking much.....stealing their grandpa's colors while he was passed out and all. They laugh and laugh and, of course, adopt me. We rode together the rest of the day and stopped at the rest stops and had lunch together. They also became my paparazzi. At the rest stops they were just dreadful....slamming down Sports fucking Drinks. I swore ferociously at them, loudly of course, about how they were destroying decades' worth of Hell's Angel rep and to stop that. More yuks. Crowd stares from a safe distance. At one rest stop it was so warm all the boys were tearing off their clothes so they can ride in their wife-beaters (some went topless entirely) and I chide them, all motherly-like: "you're gonna be fucking freezing in 12 miles and don't come whining to me that your nipples are all chapped and crap like that." And, yes, 12-15 miles later they all, to a nipply-man, stopped and dressed again. I did not try very hard to stay out of their faces at that rest stop. They loved it. You know they did.
The ride was organized like a bicycle century ride: arrows pointing where to turn on the course, etc. And it was kinda tricky except for a serious cyclist like myself who knows those tricks. The goal for every rider was to get as close to the actual ride route mileage as possible and you get a prize. And there were other prizes for other categories but we did not know what those categories were.
During the ride I change clothes several times. Which is fucking hard to do on a bike with no saddlebags beyond a tiny little windshield bag and a miniature storage space under the saddle. I had about 5 t-shirts on. First one was "Fish Hard, Die Free" with a big skeleton-fish on a chopper (me); second one was a Road King "Gotta Have One" (me); third one was "Nobody's Old Lady" long-haired woman on a big hog bike (me); fourth one was my all-time favorite "Hello Boys" in silver letters (really me even though I am 1000% monogamous); and the last one was a bathing suit that has dozens of small neon-colored fish all over it (me except I prefer red). And I had a pink glitter Barbie tutu which I only wore with the bathing suit "finale". I changed clothes every 25 miles.
Now, I need my calories when I am hyped on adrenalin.....which you surely realize I was off the adren-o-meter this day what with all those boys and Angels. And, I had paid for two lunches. So I hogged down my lunch (lumberjack size meal for Manly Buell Riders) PLUS I then loudly demanded Mr. Pansy's lunch as well. They were actually "thinking it over" until they realized "Duh. It's paid for. Just give it to her, maybe she'll shut up. Or talk more and louder." I vacuumed that lunch down, too. And needed a couple more drinks as well. People began to watch me and make bets. I think. A half-hour after I have eaten, in rolls my local Harley dealership homies. They had gotten lost, one had crashed, they were bummed. I lit into them but good at which the crowd then divvied up into: "totally scared of her but we can't stop watching this train wreck" and "love her even though she is fucking crazy".
It's now award time. Just plaques for various things like: rider who had closest to correct mileage; rider who rode furthest to attend this gathering; rider with most tricked-out Buell, etc. Eric saves one for "last". I think he did it on purpose. It was "Will Ride For Food". Now, who or how or why this category got thought up, I have no idea. I guess there is always a food hog in every crowd? But there was no question in ANYONE'S mind who the fuck deserved THAT plaque. The crowd is pointing at me and shouting "Her! Her! Her!" Eric spies me, does a double take with the pink tutu/neon pink fish getup and says: "I will give you this plaque. But first, you have got to explain that outfit." Crowd howls and howls and howls.
In one of my More Proud Moments Of Spontaneous Combustion I said:
"Well, Eric. You might not know this, but there isn't a girl alive who didn't want to grow up to become a ......"
wait for it.......wait for it.........can't you guess????
"BUELLERINA. "
The crowd actually rioted and threw food at me, at each other, on Eric, etc. Now I have to fucking pack my trophy and all my clothes for the ride home. But I manage to do so, even over that stuffed porkbelly of mine. The Angels ride with me to make sure I get the right freeways home, even though they have to go out of their way (they were from Oakland). I am ripping home at, well.....a high rate of speed....when suddenly JUST LIKE THEY WARN YOU ABOUT.....a car towing a boat just ahead of me and one lane over to my right had the cowling from the boat's outboard motor blow off and it came rolling and tumbling into MY lane. I touch the brakes with 3 fingers......deliberately disobeying the Factory Recommendation of No More Than 2 Fingers (I'm lying about the 2 fingers)....and that bike slammed down to 90mph in a split second. At least I now knew the brakes are very efficient. Fortunately, the cowling stopped tumbling at the right hand edge of my lane. Because I was in the fast lane and only had a nasty, loose-surfaced meridian as my "out". I guess it is true: speed kills. So I slowed down to 65mph for the rest of the ride home.
By the end of my exciting day I had racked up 500 miles, essentially alone. And made new friends. And had a total blast. I'm just glad I lived through it. Somewhere in Oakland is a Bad Boy with my turquoise scarf. Yeh, and they got Big Red Lipstick smoochies, too.
It was one of only about 3 times I have ever been totally without Mr. Pansy or the kids.
THE REST OF THE STORY:
One of the main organizers of the Buell event told me he made certain to find me toward the end of the event to personally thank me for my attendance and behavior. They had actually been upset when the Angels showed up and weren't quite sure how they were going to handle any "untoward" incidents and yet they couldn't be "uncool" either. And then evidently I shocked the pants off of the organizers since now they knew they were definitely going to have to eventually call in all the authorities and a Life Flight Ambulance. They just didn't know at what hour it was all going to go down. When they saw how clever I was, and still alive, as the day went on (they kept in touch via ham radio the whole time from station to station) and that I could even actually FUCKING RIDE my Buell.....well, I was/am to this day their Personal Hero Queen Idiot. We went to their next Buell ride a year later in Jackson, CA. Mr. Pansy was well that day. Dammit.
The other most precious factoid: you know it is true that men have ego/testosterone/etc. issues. And they do feel the need to compete/compensate with each other via their "toys".....such as Corvetttes, hot machines of any sort, gold chains/bling, crotch rockets, etc. The crowd that day was, to a man....EVERY ONE OF THEM WAS NO TALLER THAN 5'7". Excepting the main ride coordinator, the owner of "my" Harley dealership and ME---the most Manned Up Woman in the universe and you fucking know I am THAT. I was taller than my usual 5'8" since I was wearing my hottest, highest-heeled Tony Lama cowgirl boots that put me at a squidge under 6' tall. My shoutout to the crowd as I roared away to go home was "It's Been A Privilege. Peace out, Pygmies!"
Signed,
Amazon Amongst The Pygmies
p.s. I don't care if Mr. Pansy had the opportunity to also have the Time Of His Life with those 3 babysitters--because I know he didn't. Poor sickly 1000% monogamous baby.
Well, let's just get right down to it
Pansy says fuck. A fucking lot. Because she likes to say fuck. But only in her writings. Not in real life. Except when she says fuck in her real life because the moment is fucking right. But in real life sometimes there are those damn fucking interruptions. Luckily, she can choose to say or NOT say fuck from as soon as 30 minutes after she wants to say fuck right up to 36 hours after she wants to say fuck. Fucking okay with you? She sure the fuck hopes so. Or this fucking blog is over before it got fucking started. This blog is fucking entirely, utterly, completely and only about Pansy's Fucking (figuratively, not literally, speaking--although some ARE literally) Stories.
Signed,
I have never fucking done something like this before. I will be fucking gentle. NOT! Shit. Here goes. Good fucking luck. [presses "publish post" thingamabob now........was that a fucking boom in the universe?]
Signed,
I have never fucking done something like this before. I will be fucking gentle. NOT! Shit. Here goes. Good fucking luck. [presses "publish post" thingamabob now........was that a fucking boom in the universe?]
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