A good old fandango, kicking-up some dust Texas-style in Fredericksburg. If you’re into motorcycles, chances are you are also into old ones. There’s no better way to snatch a weekend full of antique and vintage two-wheel machines than an AMCA (Antique Motorcycle Club of America) meet.

Problem can be some of the AMCA meets are a tad slow-paced, and sometimes if you pull in on a chopper, you’ll get a raised eyebrow or two. That’s not true in Texas, with the Cherokee Chapter of the AMCA. They initiated the Texas Fandango, and 2024 marked the third annual Fandango in Fredericksburg, Texas. It was a huge success.



But this story covers exactly what this event stands for. The Cherokee Chapter managed to be an open-door for all motorcycle people, even the Chopper maniacs. Because of this, it’s the chapter Heather and I belong to, even if it’s1000 miles from home.

Their attitude towards inclusion and celebration of motorcycle culture, is a major reason why it has the largest memberships in the country. Plus, it organizes and hosts one of the best events nationwide.



Cycle Source Magazine sponsored the bike show at Fandango since the beginning, and we worked in conjunction with Steve Klein, the spiritual leader. He organized an incredible display of vintage motorcycles every day. This year was no exception, with the addition of truly unique trophies for all class winners.  



I mean, after all, if you do anything worth a damn in Texas, you get a saddle for it. So, in the spirit of the west, these handcrafted, beautiful little leather saddles were adorned with class winner tags for the best bikes. And man, this was a tough room between the Fours, the old Pans, the genuinely unique motorcycles, even Bultaco’s two-stroke Astros were painstakingly restored.

This was a tough event to judge. Just outside the vintage bike show was the Chopper Corral, which displayed a plethora of modified motorcycles and a great party.



Flat track racing tore-up the red clay throughout the weekend, but the Chopper Drag races were the highlight. It should be no surprise Danger Dan once again took the championship and was honored as the best drag racer. The swap meet kicked-it, and I took away a killer set of saddlebags for a Cycle Source shop project. Jason Sims displayed early twin cylinders, but in the middle of serious negotiations Heather (the wife) showed up and squashed the deal, damn.



When the sun dipped at Fandango, things on the midway got sorta quiet. That doesn’t mean the gang crashed for the night. They headed to the campground to kick-off the party. Every night kick-ass entertainment rattled the impromptu stage.



In other campsites, folks BBQ’d and shared time and road stories. Secretly, I think we all waited for Merle “The Pie Guy” to deliver some fantastic, juicy slices of pie. He also owns a beautiful ‘48 Panhead, one of the winners in our show.



Steve, the AMCA and the Cycle Source crew produced another flaming, fantastic, fun Fandago for 2024. Don’t miss it next year.

It’s been 14 years since I did Ladies Day Out, a local Treasure Coast women’s ride. From 1999 to 2010, the girls got together and we rode out in support of a local animal shelter. Then I got a real job and put the photojournalism on the back burner. Still rode when I could, supported when I could, (like so many of us) and as you probably know, always took my camera with me.

I have seen and heard of this particular event. I wasn’t able to attend or my head, and heart, were somewhere else. I have always been a champion for women riders. So now settled in a small home in a motorcycle Mecca, I can do more to be there for the girls with the jolt for more. Here’s some history courtesy of the this globally known motorcycle riding event, and how the ladies did it up in Daytona Beach this year.

International Female Ride Day (IFRD) is a one-day motorcycle riding event happening each year on the first Saturday in May since 2007. According to International Female Ride Day – Women’s Motorcycle Ride Day (motoress.com), “Those years ago, Vicki Gray, the founder of Motoress.com, came up with a brilliant idea to bring awareness to the growing numbers of female motorcyclists: designate one day in May for women riders to simply get out on their motorcycles and ride.“

Above photo courtesy of Motoress.com is Vicky Gray.

“A few years ago, seeing the huge growth in the interest—and realizing that many people work on a Friday—the day was moved to the first Saturday in May.” Motoress and many other motorcycling, road, sport, trike, antique, what be your choice of motorcycle, outlets have spread the word about this International Female Ride Day. This was my first time attending a world-wide riding event. Imagine, women is New Zealand doing the same thing we were doing on this very day.

The goal of the IFRD is to will other women to take up the handlebars. One of the points I appreciated the most was, “Can I ride alone or do I have to ride with a group?” You can ride to a staged designated beginning area or ride by yourself to any event you know about. Or show up with some girlfriends who ride also, toast to all of us brave and beautiful beings and feel your knees in the breeze.

Teddy Morse’s Daytona Harley-Davidson, also known as Destination Daytona, began the celebration in style, as always, with a early morning group ride from the dealership to visit our Veterans at the Emory L Bennett Memorial Veterans Nursing Home, which was about ten miles south in a more locale of Daytona Beach. The residents were eager to see these impressive women on all sorts of motorcycles. The gentlemen and one lady veteran lined up early and excited.

This part of the day was the brainchild of Athena Ransom of Vagabond Choppers and Rebecca Young, marketing manager of the dealership who together put forth the call for women riders to join in the day-long event. Our favorite friend of all things righteous, Willie from Tropical Tattoo, along with Mike Erthal both who have been decades long supporters of this nursing home, earnestly worked to make this happen for IFRD and our retired veterans.

 A group of 20 gorgeous women riders rode to the Nursing Home, with much inspiration as they all talked freely, hugged freely and got to take pictures with the veterans. It was such a heartwarming experience for everyone as smiles and laughter filled the front foyer. All the armed forces were represented and as you can tell by my photos, memories were made. The staff was thrilled as much as we were to be there.

Then, together, the pack headed back to Destination Daytona for a Ride-In-Bike show. Early May weather did not disappoint, and the dealership’s open arms were around every corner and uncluttered door. The bike show classes included; Big Twin, Sportster, Bagger, Trike, Vintage, Metric, Best Paint and Dealer’s Choice. Once the winner were announced, we were asked to ride up in front of the sand- like sculpture of the dealership’s logo for photographs.

My 1993 FXLR, “Rubber Soul” turned thirty this year. I wasn’t sure about which class, with a ten-dollar entry fee, Vintage or Big Twin, so for another five dollars, I went for both. The girls were thrilled to win, but also to meet other women riders, talk motorcycles, check out some new blue jeans and find a shady spot. I am so impressed with the, ahem, older women, who come riding in on their 1972 or 1973 stock FLH Shovelheads, floorboards, windshields, fiberglass saddle bags and wide glides as they find a tight parking spot. They make it look so easy.

Athena did her magic at judging the bikes that entered as her grandson, Baron, helped with anything he could. He’s five, going on six. He is a delightful youngster who was so gracious with the veterans. Once again, Rebecca and her entire staff put on a top notch show for those that stayed and played. Gift cards were the prizes, and as we all dispersed, we hug and wave and call each other “Sister Friend.”

Learn more about this internationally known day for women riders of all types. Look up the websites listed below. Subscribe to Bikernet.com. We don’t care what you ride, as long as you respect the pack, know the road and watch out for each other.

Love and respect always,
–Katmandu

https://womenridersnow.com

I am a chemical engineer who once did research on removing carbon dioxide (CO2) from the emissions of industrial plants or directly from the atmosphere. But I now see CO2 as a critical plant food necessary for all of life on Earth. Frankly, the more the better.

In my former career, I presented my research on optimizing a CO2 capture system for a coal-fired power plant in the 2018 American Institute of Chemical Engineers Annual Meeting. I also contributed to a project sponsored by the U.S. Department of Energy’s Advanced Research Projects Agency – Energy, which involved integrating a natural gas power plant with CO2 capture systems.

Despite my career path, I was skeptical about the popular theory of human-induced climate change. Furthermore, at the time, I had a generally positive view of fossil fuels. In fact, my Ph.D. research was funded by Chevron, a descendant of the Standard Oil Co. and among the archvillains of those predicting overheating from emissions of CO2.

Nonetheless, it was not until I read a CO2 Coalition paper titled “Challenging ‘Net Zero’ with Science” that my eyes were fully opened. The authors’ arguments were based on rigorous scientific inquiry. They concluded that CO2 and fossil fuels are beneficial, that there is no climate crisis, and that “net zero” policies seeking the elimination of CO2 emissions from coal, oil, and natural gas are detrimental – even dangerous.

I was struck most by the benefits of CO2, which was something I had not put much thought into. CO2 is essential for plant growth and food production. In fact, doubling atmospheric CO2 from today’s concentrations of approximately 400 parts per million (ppm) to 800 ppm could increase food production by 40-60%.

The CO2 Coalition paper referenced the works of Dr. Sherwood B. Idso. After digging deeper, I found out about experiments with sour orange trees performed by Drs. Idso and Bruce A. Kimball (published in 1993, 1997, and 2001). Compared to trees in ambient air, ones exposed to air enriched with CO2 concentrations of 700 ppm grew 2.75 times larger at the end of the second year, 2.0 times larger at the end of the fifth, and 1.8 times larger after nine years. Beginning in the third year, fruit production for CO2-enriched trees was 25 times greater and eventually averaged to almost twofold through the entire life cycle of the plant.

Higher concentrations of CO2 also reduce plants’ loss of water vapor through lowered transpiration rates, where transpiration refers to the exchange of oxygen for CO2 through openings in leaves known as stomata. In other words, higher concentrations of CO2 increase plants’ resistance to drought. This, in turn, means that more moisture remains in the soil and has been partially credited with a global decline in wildfire. This phenomenon was confirmed through research published in 2003, where the water-use efficiency of sour orange trees exposed to CO2 concentrations of 700 ppm increased by 80% compared to those exposed to ambient air.

As for fossil fuels, their benefits are seemingly endless. First, they are reliable and cheap sources of energy. And their combustion emits the CO2 that is salutary to plant growth.

What was new to me is the role of fossil fuels in providing fertilizers and pesticides critical to growing the food required for the world’s 8 billion people. For instance, ammonia (NH3), a crucial component of fertilizer, can be formed by reacting natural gas with atmospheric nitrogen (N2), and pesticides are produced from oil and gas. One billion pounds of pesticides are used annually in the United States, where they keep weeds and insects in check to allow modern agriculture’s extraordinary level of crop production.

In short, CO2 is absolutely necessary for life and more of it is clearly a plus. Fossil fuels improve the quality of life and make rich lives possible for many billions, whereas mere millions once struggled mightily just to survive. Removing CO2 from the atmosphere makes no sense.

Finally, CO2 capture, besides being illogical, is prohibitively expensive. Capturing CO2 from emissions and then transporting and storing it can cost trillions of dollars and decades of investment. CO2 capture systems cannot operate without ongoing government subsidies, and currently, are only removing approximately 0.1% of the 40 billion tons of CO2 emitted per year.

At this point, bottling up CO2 should be left for manufacturers of carbonated beverages and dry ice and for the purposes of other specialized industrial processes. I am very happy to have transitioned from CO2 capture to the CO2 Coalition, and I am working hard to spread the facts about the benefits of this amazing molecule.

This commentary was first published at American Thinker on November 29, 2023.

Frits Byron Soepyan is a Research and Science Associate with the CO2 Coalition, Arlington, Virginia. He has a Ph.D. in chemical engineering from The University of Tulsa and has worked as a process systems engineer and a researcher in energy-related projects.

www.CO2Coalition.org

She waited for him by the blazing fireplace, half naked on the bear skin rug. Wearing only a red garter belt and matching corset, she loved their warm rustic cabin by the lake.

Her old man worked on the rigs in the Gulf of Mexico. A true blue rough-neck just like his daddy before him, Blue was a half-blood Choctaw and English. A big man about 6 foot 4 inches, he packed muscles everywhere from working rigs all his life. His first leave in months, he readied himself to ride back to see his sweet Caroline in their cozy cabin by the lake.

He faced a 300 mile trip to the Carolinas, and his candy apple red 1964 Panhead chopper rested under an oily tarp in a rig tool shed waiting for her master. Blue painted the Panhead after the color of Caroline’s ruby red lipstick to always remember why he worked hard.

Late into the night on Christmas Eve, he cut a quick dusty trail on the old chopper to make it home before the dawn of Christmas day. He left the Gulf burning rubber under the sliver of a moonlit night. Hooking along a southern highway headed north, he figured about 80 miles an hour. He’d slice through 4 to 5 hours, with two gas stops.

About 200 miles into the trip, the Eastern seaboard faced a nasty blizzard push ashore. He pulled the Pan into a wet, wind-swept gas station to top her off. Cold and damp to the bone, he pulled the Santa suit out of his saddlebags. It’s all he had to enhance his layered protection. Slipping it on under his dripping chaps and over his 5-Ball racing leather vest, he looked the part of a weathered biker Santa.

Caroline waited patiently for the half breed Indian with anticipation. She kept the fire in the stone hearth stoked, while gazing desperately out the cabin window. Snow flurries blew sideways as blizzard conditions engulfed the coast. Suddenly scared, she wondered would Blue make it home for Christmas?

She grabbed a thick furry robe and put on some soft music by Neil Diamond. Nervously listening to his greatest hits, Caroline knelt by the frosty window and waited. Suddenly, through the roar of the winter storm winds she heard the faint rumble of fishtail pipes in the distance. Thunder claps closer and closer, she strained near the fogged glass to listen for that powerful sound in the storm.

Blue squinted through his steamed wet riding glasses and hunted for the line on the asphalt highway. About to freeze his nuts off, he peered through the sideways flying sheets of snow for her road sign giggling in the wind. What is it about love and romance, about the touch of a woman that drives a man to risk life and limb to conquer the unimaginable to be by her side?

Leather gloved hands frozen to the bars, he slid up to the thick wooden door of the cabin sideways and nearly lost control of the old Pan. Still upright, he kicked the side-stand down, shook off the snow, put on his Santa hat and stomped into to the cabin.

“Have you been a good girl this year?” Cold Blue Santa said.

“Why don’t you come down here and find out,” Caroline hauntingly whispered. The song Sweet Caroline filled the room.

If that wasn’t impressive enough, Kelly has earned her spot on the Flying Piston Benefit “Art On Deck” presented by BIG FRIG contest. This breakfast event kicks off Monday, March 4, 2024 at Teddy Morse’s Daytona Harley-Davidson dealership.
Join us as we unravel the mind behind the art, where every stroke tells a story and every color sparks the imagination.

A: I would describe it as a depraved Lowbrow cartoon. It’s improved over the years because of learning how to tattoo has taught me a few things about blending techniques and placement.

A: No, no weed. I have been non-stop partying since October. And, well, I have plenty of shit from Colorado that a buddy gave me and I was thinking about staying dry through January. Then I might switch over to this Colorado shit and see what I come up with.

Q: So, are you saying this is autobiography art? 

 A: Yes.

www.flyingpistonbenefit.com

 

www.FlyingPistonBenefit.com

https://www.instagram.com/kellycampanile/

Today, I decided to burn all the pine straw accumulating in my front yard. The air just this side of too cold to be outside, I relished the brilliant Arkansas sun. I knew the fire and the labor would soon warm me, make me hurt and make me smile.

The concrete of my barn floor was damp and cold beneath my bare feet as I pulled my yard broom from behind dusty motorcycle fenders hanging on the wall. I navigated my wheelbarrow through my menagerie of Harleys towards the front yard. The fire caught quickly, and I dumped wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow of straw on the pile, while ignoring the cold air and engulfing the sunshine.

I built a fantastic flame that billowed smoke and flushed my cheeks in a way that no human touch has in a very long time. A weed-eater-like-buzz of a crotch rocket ripped over the hill behind me, and the beautiful young boy smirked as he rode past the barefoot old lady in a long denim skirt and worn flannel shirt. I propped one foot on the rake handle and absentmindedly offered him the biker’s wave as he buzzed by… He thought I was ridiculous, of course, and I laughed to myself as I made my way to rest on the porch steps and enjoy the dancing flames. If he only knew… who I used to be.

I picked up my phone, and there was a text from an old friend I might could have loved, once upon a time, if the 1%er lifestyle hadn’t been more than he could handle. If only he had never turned to speed to try to keep up with the younger boys… if the sordid world of drugs and hard living, whores and lies and all the other vile things that slither though the darkened underbelly of our world hadn’t destroyed the intimate closeness we once shared and hadn’t killed my respect for him.

The text just said, ‘Missing you.’ I replied ‘well, you always know where I am.’ I sat there on the step for a moment and allowed myself to ponder him. I remembered curling into his body heat in ragged cheap motel rooms after long days of riding, feeling the heat of my sunburn and wind burns touching the heat of his own reddened skin. I felt his massive heart in his massive chest slow as he slid off into his dreams of being someone he never became.

I sighed, and picked up my rake to stir my fire… and my memories stirred with the embers. That first Road King I straddled… and her owner who could make my spine twist like a cat in heat with just his wink and smile… the way he slept with a Bible on the nightstand, a Colt in one hand and my tit in the other. And finally the way he died and turned so cold, after an hour in my arms, in his hot sweaty bed, one bright summer day.

The Deuces and the Dynas and the Softtails and the Electra Glides rode through my memory in a languid procession as I worked the fire, and the men who I wrapped my thighs around their hips and rode away, did too.. The feel of their ponytails whipping my breasts, the scent of leather and pot and wind and freedom mixed with the thump of their heartbeats against my own, their hands dropping off of handlebars to rest on my thigh as they carried me away, again and again and again.

I thought of the worthless drunk I married the first time… of the day he told me I had to choose my Harley or him. I grabbed my scuffed leather jacket and walked resolutely out the door.

I thought of my darling second husband, how he went to bed so warm one night, and I woke to find him cold. I glanced toward my barn, at his Triglide shining in the sun, in glistening tribute to the soldier who loved her and loved me too.

I thought of the one who I tried so hard to share my warmth, to cauterize the chill so many women before me left frozen around his old heart. But no amount of miles could stop him from leaving me, shivering alone in the cold winter snow, again and again, Until, destroyed and half frozen to death, I dragged myself and my stuff back home to heal in the comforting, warm embrace of the Arkansas sun.

I thought of the one that was so beautiful, so smart, so perfect and so out of my league. The Doc to my Kate, the Rhett to my Scarlett, maybe the one I loved most of all. A long forgotten heat stirred within me as I remembered how his laughter and his warm molasses drawl warmed my heart. But no matter how many nights I drifted to sleep with his smile in my mind, my knight in leather armor will never carry me away on his chrome laden steed. His heat, I will only ever know in my dreams.

As the last smokey ashes died in the setting sun, so did my fleeting memories of the warmth of the men that filled my body, now and then and once upon a time. Even now, barren and alone, I am glad they all broke my heart and made me sweat, over and over again. I am glad I loved them all.

In the smoldering ash of my heartbreaks, remains the memory of the flames… They still warm my soul, even the ones who are buried in the cold, cold ground. So many people believe bikers are the wind, but they’re not. They are the fire, they are the burn, they are the heat and they are the sun. And though I am now long withered and cold, they are the old flames that warm me in my dreams and sometimes still flicker a little bit of heat in my tired old mind.

–The Wicked Bitch

 100 word fiction contest continues…. #100WFC

Yup, its a monthly contest open to all. Word limit is 100. Lots of Bikernet swag to be won. Just sign up for the free weekly newsletter by clicking here.

Then email your fiction story in 100 words or less to wayfarer@bikernet.com

Curious about fiction stories under 100 words? Have a look at the contest entries in 2023 and list of winners by clicking below link.

WINNERS SO FAR:
1. for the month of January 2024: Jeffrey aka JJ Spain
2. for the month of February and March 2024: “Stray Paths” by Rhys
3. for the month of April 2024: TBA

Me Too Engine Ride
by Steven Sanner
with illustration by Wayfarer

As I stood in line with the other condemned souls at this Hell on Earth they Call the Motor Vehicle Administration, a hand lightly tapped me on the shoulder.

“I noticed your ABATE patch on your jacket” said the dainty soccer mom. “ Are they still around? My husband and I used to be members in the ‘90s.”

The question was one that I’ve heard numerous times in the any years I have been active in our state MRO, and my response was automatic. “Yes, we have been around since 1973 and the fight for our rights never stopped. Come on by the chapter meeting and rejoin us.”

We had just gotten the last kid out the door to college and we’re thinking about riding again. We always had a good time with you people. I’ll let my husband know you ‘all are still here.”

Maybe another lost soul will rejoin the ranks on the freedom fighter.

Little Lady on the Road
by Jeffrey aka JJ Spain
with illustration by Wayfarer

Riding west on 44 out of Rapid, I pulled to the shoulder, parked the Harley to talk to a little girl. She was alone, maybe three years old.

She wasn’t dressed for walking the highway in December weather. She said her name was Abby as I picked her up, opened my jacket and held her close to my body.

I dialed 911. An officer was there in three minutes. A woman in a red Lexus was there in five.

She yelled, “Get your hands off her!”

“Ma’am, have you been drinking?” the officer asked.

Abby began to cry when CPS took her from me.

I did too.

(publication dated 08-January-2024)

I got on the horn with Atomic Bob to ask him to donate some art for the upcoming Flying Piston Benefit online auction in Daytona on March 4, 2024.
Instead of answering the question, Bob growled about those thieving sonsabitches hacking his Instagram account and were digitally squatting on his property.

He can’t DM, he can’t post directly, and he can’t get it back through Instagram. And the thieves want 250 hostage money!

I said, “250K?”

No, $250 and I won’t pay it. If I find them, they won’t do it again! After he got that off his chest, we discussed his new store. He’s now offering his original masterpieces at the Atomic Bob Shop on Facebook. And here’s a kicker—he’s drawing inspiration from the vibrant 2000s era!

2000s? During this time, Atomic Bob lived his best life with zero worries. Picture this: motorcycles, cars, cash—anything he fancied, he had it.
With a grin, the Atomic One shared, “Those were the days!”

Apparently, he use to embrace a perpetual cloud of smoke because, hey, who cared? “I was in my 20s, living the dream. But then I thought I should be a responsible adult and stick to legal stuff—like being an alcoholic,” he chuckled…

Ah, the Atomic Bob wisdom!

Atomic has since put the whiskey down and picked up the pipe. Since Ohio is now a cannabis state, he likes to kick back, relax and paint high.

If you haven’t seen Atomic Bob’s artistic style, then you are in for a treat. He seamlessly blends pinstriping, custom paint and illustration with a distinctive touch. Renowned for his imaginative creations, Atomic Bob’s art frequently features themes revolving around monsters and eyeballs, adding a unique and captivating flair to his work.
Bob then took me through a couple of his works in his Atomic Bob Store.

The first piece of art originated in 2014, was completed in Atomic Bob’s grandma and grandpa’s basement. His girlfriend Kelly had kicked him out for the last time and got him locked up as well.

“I was feeling down as I paged through a magazine and saw this T-Bird,” explained Atomic. “I had this building down by the railroad tracks. I decided I was going to call it Atomic Dice Custom Paint. This T-Bird was going to be my new logo. I remember I was mad because I had to start my life over yet again, get sober and blah, blah, blah.”

The T-Bird was drawn in-between fights and arguments and all kinds of chaos, including yelling and smoking cigarettes late into the night.

“The lucky boy or girl out there who gets this can honestly light it on fire and dance naked in the dark,” said Bob.

Another interesting piece is an original autobiographical art piece of Atomic Bob’s ‘51 DeSoto. His lead sled was slammed with exhaust coming out of the rear quarter panel.

This framed piece fell on his head when the cops came to arrest him, while slamming him against the wall. He reframed it, of course, but you can still see little slices in the parchment where the cops stepped on the art.

“When you’re an alcoholic for so long as I was, there’s a lot of moments I missed. I actually stare at things in order for shit to start to come back to me,” explained Atomic.

And that’s where the story gets cool. So, when somebody buys this, it will be like, “Oh man, the artists got arrested, the damn thing fell on him, and it was stomped by a cop. What’s not to like?”

“So, I’m living in the 2000s with my music. Feeling the good vibes. Smoking pot and taking care of myself,” Bob said. “I am grateful for what I have. I’m not abusing my body.”

“The medical industry might be able to fix me, but I can tell you right now, I’m not going to make it worse because I ultimately have to make money with my hands and my arms and everything.”

BIG FRIG – https://bigfrig.com/
FLYING PISTON BENEFIT – https://flyingpistonbenefit.com/
ATOMIC BOB SHOP – https://www.facebook.com/groups/1324617964909190

Science, Technology and the American Advertising Industry Saving the Earth, the Forest and your Butthole, one Sheet of Shit-Paper at a time.

Charmin toilet paper has boldly altered the perforations that separate one “sheet” from the next, changing them from straight-line perforations, an example of which would graphically look like this, into CURVED perforations, resulting in a torn edge that looks like…

Ok, there’s no way I can show that on the keyboard apparently. You know what the letter S looks like? Rotate that 90 degrees. And then kinda stretch it out. Kinda like to where it looks like a gentle undulation from one end of the torn sheet to the other. A sort of kind of like the visual depiction of a soft tone of a gentle bell, or ripples in a quiet pond or a rolling kind of hilly road on a country byway on a spring day.

Researching this matter I have learned that this is “smooth-tear technology.” Smooth-tear technology is the result of thousands, or maybe just one, letter of incredible angst and suffering regarding something called the “errant remnant” that occurs (I am guessing one in ten trillion times) enough to where apparently, unlike the eradication of American Culture, people won’t tolerate it any longer.

Apparently when people take the time to write to toilet paper manufacturers, the number one (haha I would call it the number two. But that’s just me)…apparently the number one complaint is the, “useless remnant experience.”

The “useless remnant experience” is apparently so fucking heinous that Charmin, in a gesture of almost saintly selflessness, has created the, “scalloped separation advancement.”

A Google search will reveal that every journalist with a byline at a, “major news entity” has, “reported” on this technological extermination of the “useless remnant experience,” using as validation of the revolutionary aspects of this achievement the official statements from the border-collie-like bright and eager official-statement-makers from Charmin: the corporate chieftains via their ad agency. It’s almost as though these stock-watching high-achievers and everyone in the press, are convinced this renovation of the tear-aspect of their toilet paper is just a shade less earth-shaking than the discovery of an anti-gravity propulsion system. Jesus coming down from the clouds to usher-in the Millennium will not be getting this much journalistic coverage as the Charmin Shitpaper Severance Simplifier is generating.

You see, according to the many many Pulitzer Prize seeking journalists quoting Charmin executives and not claiming to have done any personal research themselves into the matter, the PROBLEM with old fashioned, prehistoric Pleistocene toilet paper like what YOU’RE probably using…the problem is NOT having the shit-sheet come apart in a waveform manner: or in other words in a scollopine undulationary vibrational motif; rather than just a shearing, don’t-give-a-fuck manner….the PROBLEM is that it wastes paper. A small piece falls off. A piece that never gets to touch your dung– And therefor becomes sad.

But this new revolutionary dotted-line technology eliminates that episode of sadness and SAVES PAPER!

You WANT to save paper when you shit. I am sure you know this. When you shit the conservation of the roll is where your attention is when you spin that motherfucker around the center-dowel and those snakelike unravellings come a-speeding off the roll…when you finally decide that the pile of ass-swathing in your mitts is big enough to absorb all the ass-slather that is adhering like a cooling mudflow around your anal canal. You want that tear of the last sheet off the roll to be right on the perforation. And not in some halfway, who knows where, who gives a fuck location on the sheet resulting in the next shitting occupant dropping his drawers, squatting on the bowl, spraying a brown gunnite-like holocaust into the toilet, and then him reaching for the toilet paper in joy and happiness only to find that the FIRST sheet has half of itself missing. You talk about rage and fury and frustration.

Well Charmin has basically obliterated this problem. Your rages and frustrations will have to go and find for themselves some other outlet because the CEO’s and Corporate Directors and Research and Development PhD’s at Charmin Pre-Suppository Prevention Laboratories have scalloped the tear-parameters of your next reach toward the shit-shunter paper on that wobbly bathroom fixture next to you. Yessir, you are looking at calm days ahead. If you think I am just writing fiction like a common journalist, let’s go to Fox News, a place where all its fans are convinced it’s not just another commie, collectivist stronghold.

https://www.fox9.com/news/charmin-revolutionizes-toilet-paper-design-a-game-changer-in-bathroom-comfort

There are dozens of really huge news entities reporting on this, all of them with respectful, dutiful litanies of identical sentences and not a trace of – what I would consider to be essential regarding this “news:” namely – mandatory snark. But there is none.The fact is, as long as the hack gets to see his name attached to a piece of paper or a piece of computer screen in a professional forum. He doesn’t care what he says or what some editor changes what he says into. Not that editors need to monitor their hacks: they all think exactly alike on all political or social or philosophical matters. So, yeah, this is big identical news in a lot of majorly places.

But you, I know, want to get back to the exciting reality of this new shit eraser and I know what you’re asking, “Does the new aspect of the earth-aware tear footprint separating one sheet from the rest affect the actual paper-against-shit accrual aspect at all?” In other words, does the new galloping scalloping cause the toilet paper to gather LESS shit or MORE shit onto itself than does – or did – the old, technology-barren, straightline-torn, now-outdated, toilet paper of long ago? That is, is it better as a shit-accruer? Or is it in fact worse. Or is there no difference? I MUST know!

Well, turns out, THIS is not a question of any particular interest to a “news-gathering” entity because I am GUESSING that gathering-news personnel – already being shit-deep in shit as they already are – why would they have any curiosity about something LESS shit-gathering than they are themselves, namely toilet paper?

Journalists likely – I am guessing – see toilet paper as some sort of inferior, junior varsity level of shit gatherer, not worthy of a lot of scrutiny over and above the official announcements made by the valiant creators of the sections that exist between the sheets that have less sheeting in them when torn.

Sheets for shits – to a professional journalist – is Amateur Hour to a REAL shit-sheet employee, say at The New York Times or Reuters-Rhymes-With-Goiters or Bloomberg or The Washington Post or The Huffington or David Muir Rhymes With Coiffeur. Toilet paper is small potatoes, petulance-wise, to A Major News Source compared to the foul fecal-fumed fundament-like essence of the Major News Source itself.

However I am a journalist of a more noble sort. I do not just accept toilet paper innovations and renovations and ass-salvations just on the words of a CEO most likely written by a copywriter at an ad agency. In fact for all I know the ad agency itself might have actually come up with the idea of perforating the sheets into waveforms rather than straight lines. For the CEO to take the credit is well within the traditional agreements between ad agencies and their clients. In fact ad agencies are EXPECTED to come up with bullshit proclamations, I mean innovative solutions to eternally vexing problems such as this one regarding how best to install separation protocol parameters between sheets of toilet paper.

APPARENTLY the fact that one sheet of toilet paper by itself is absolutely useless for ANYTHING, forget about shearing shit shards off an ass…is never isolated as a topic and set down in the center of a toilet paper manufacturer board meeting as a long-overdue candidate for discussion and debate. One sheet of toilet paper is about as useless as a Kamala Harris translation dictionary: no one on earth knows what she’s saying and no one on earth knows what one sheet of toilet paper could possibly be good for.

You couldn’t wipe the ass of a centipede with one sheet of toilet paper. I know what you’re saying: a centipede has five dozen back legs so it has five dozen crotches which means it has five dozen assholes. This changes nothing in my opinion. In fact, it would make things worse. And let me tell you something pal – you really need to think this shit out before you go on one of these little hoity-toity tears of yours, dragging centipedes into this. Speaking of tears.

Where the fuck was I? Thanks a lot sparky.

Since I am the only journalist in a handful who actually CARES about things, I decided to do some actual asses-on research via the Troll Ops, a Harley, Triumph chopped motorcycle fraternity in Panamint City, referenced here at this website in a previous article. To those of you who insist that Panamint City in Ca. is off limits to casual or serious human habitation as mandated and ordered by one or more Congressionally Approved entities, the Troll Ops are aware of that.

In sort of nearby Ballarat there is a sort of a saloon that is sort of off-limits to State law enforcement for reasons I won’t go into because, frankly, those reasons have nothing to do with toilet paper. Ballarat Ratty, the owner, wasn’t there but his daughter, Vulpina, she was there. Vulpina looks clearly reptilian. But She’s Ballarat Ratty’s daughter and he gets to name her whatever the fuck he wants, I guess.

I asked her if she used Charmin in the restroom. She said “Haha, the restroom? You mean the toilet over there where that guy’s sitting?”

I said “Yeah: there Charmin on that roll?”

She said “Hold on,” and bent into the bar and came back up with a ledger and opened it and flipped a page or two and leaned-in and read something and straightened back up again and looked at me and said “No. Scott-issue.”

I said “You fold a sheet of Scott-issue in fourths and hold it pinched at the corner you can cut glass with it.”

She said, “Are you going to have a fucking drink? Or are you just gonna stand there, drool through your missing teeth, interrogate the House’s inventory policies and tell me what toilet papers can and can’t do.”

I said, “How about I do all of them and you give me two shots of colorless tequila that are a couple of grades higher than Hornitos.”

She said, “We got that. But it’s gonna cost ya.”

I said “Do you know who I am?”

She said, “No. But I know who yer GONNA be: the next in line at the coronor’s you don’t stop fuckin’ with me.”

I said, “Well, look, here’s the deal: I need to have someone test some toilet paper for me cause I’m writing an article for Bikernet.com.”

She said “They still exist?”

I said, “Yeah, look, this is actually important..”

She manifested an eye-to-eye glare that had shortening-someone’s-lifespan written all over it and she said, “You’re writing something for Bikernet…..and it’s important.”

“Yes, that’s correct!” I said with actually a grin of enthusiasm.

She said “In what universe did you come from that you think the words ‘Bikernet’ and ‘important’ can exist in the same sentence.”

We gazed at each other for a long time, her lookin’ at me with hatred and me lookin’ at her with curiosity at whether I could actually take her in a bar fight. It seemed to me even odds. But I said “You’ve broached an issue that has been being discussed and argued for 25 years. We’re not gonna settle this here. It’s too noisy for one thing.

“Listen: Charmin claims it is slicing its shitter sheets a new revolutionary way that is a marvel of American Exceptionalism and that is the rival of the invention of the airplane. I need to have some experiments conducted.”

She kind of leaned back. “Oh! Why didn’t you say so? How can I help?”

I said “You gut any patrons here who need to take a shit?”

She said, raising an index finger and already starting to walk off, ”You stay right there, Sweetie,” and she hustled down to the other end and bent into the bar and came up with a mike and turned to the drink-bottle array and turned off a switch and suddenly the extremely very old school Country music stopped that had a LOT of the men who had been sitting all by themselves, all hangdog and forlorn, suddenly sit upright and look around perplexed.

The barkeep, whose name it actually was, being My Pal Sal, she said into the mike and now facing the quiet patrons said, “Anyone here need to take a crap real bad?”

Couple of hands went up.

She went on: “I gut a guy here says he needs to test a hi-poth-a-noose. Says he claims Charmin has uttered in a new age of shitterosity by cuttin’ the papers off each other different. He needs to test it.”

Someone shouted, “Who cares how its fuckin’ cut off! Long as there’s a-fuckin’ NUFF of it! That’s a DUMB test!”

My Pal Sal said, “What would be a BETTER test of toilet paper, Einstein??”

There was a long silence while the fellow buried his fingers into his whiskers, thinking. Someone yelled out excited, “COLOR????”

A third man turned toward the man who yelled that and said, clearly annoyed and said, “Like, what: brown? Dark brown?”

The other guy thought a minute and then said with some assurance, “Yeah. Brown mebbe.”

The third guy, now clearly exasperated said, “ How would you even know if you GOT any shit on the peper if the paper was already dark brown: touch sections of it with your fingers? When you hit a slick part you’d go ‘Yeah, ok, that part’s shit.’ You really think that’s a good idea?…..’tactile-test toilet paper??”

A fourth guy shouted, “Shape? Maybe round sheets??”

The guy that suggested colored paper said “My shit is usually a kind of runny yellow. With red clumps mixed in. Usually. So I could actually use brown toilet paper. Probly wouldn’t be a problem.”

I had to admire the attitude of some of the patrons. They were clearly trying to cooperate and get into this.

Gesturing to My Pal Sal to hand me the mike I took it and began to amble away from the bar and start explaining the situation.

“I think most of you know who I am and know that I never intrude myself into everyone else’s drinking and relaxation and in some cases morose memories from a life of lost love and lost opportunities courtesy of the in-house melodies and lyrical iterations of depression courtesy of Tex Ritter, Spade Cooley, Doye Odell and Tennessee Ernie.”

“WHO EVEN ARE THESE PEOPLE???!!!”

I looked at the fellow that said that and said, “Legends. Legends, my friend. Legends of travail and hardship and endurance: pioneers in the painting of the American Spirit in song: the spirit of fair-play….kindness to women and children….the gentle balm of drunken oblivion…..and trust in the Lord.” You could have heard a pin drop.

“Oh,” he said finally from out of the silence. “Oh, ok.”

The room now mine to command, I said, “But the reason I’m here is not to amble down the musical road of bad-memories lane where fighting to keep the corn crop from rotting or singing about whether Pappa Clem will die of the rabies and how will we survive if he dies or tuneful inquiries about whether my wife will understand that I love her but ‘Joline At fifteen’ is wearin’ a real thin short dress and no underwear…

“I LOVE THAT SONG!!” someone screamed excitedly.

“But rather I am here to conduct a toilet paper test involving a few volunteers to take a shit over there on the toilet. Does the toilet flush?” I asked loudly, looking around.

“Sometimes,” someone said.

I said, “Sometimes meaning sometimes just today? Or sometimes every few months or so.”

Everyone kind of looked at me, a few people looked at each other and then someone said, “We have lives, you know. We’re not toilet inventorians.”

“This is the only toilet in 20 square miles,” I said annoyed: “You don’t know if it fucking flushes right or not?”

Someone yelled, “Do you see any fucking shit on the floor?”

I looked around and then said, “No, I don’t seem to see any.”

“Then what’s this fucking test and when is it going to fucking start?” The same guy said.

“Ok!” I said excitedly. “Here’s the deal!…Charmin is claiming to have improved their toilet paper.”

Everyone looked up from what they were doing and some left their present locations to quietly move closer and give me their full attention.

I went on, “They’ve altered the separation anomalies of their toilet paper that defines one sheet from another.”

There was an audible but unintelligible murmur among them all, all looking at each other and then silence and looking back at me. “The old tear-footprint was basically the same thing as ‘printing’ and the new one is basically ‘cursive.’ Cursive is like curvy writing like what your parents did.”

“I’VE SEEN THAT!!” someone shouted, standing up and then sitting down. I said, “The CLAIM is that when you tear it…it always tears right across the separation-enabler-perforations. Or, ya know, the tear-place.”

“Toilet paper ALWAYS does that!!” Someone hollered.

I had to admit to myself that this was in fact how it had always seemed to me as well. However this news item had made to the “this just in!” department of every news entity in America. It HAD to be meaningful, was my conclusion.

“I need some people, men, women, I don’t think it matters to use the toilet paper, to take a shit and then use some Charmin. Is there Charmin presently on the roll?”

“No, it’s Scott!” someone shouted.

“God help us,” I said.”Do you keep a rectal-scrapage expert physician on hand during operating hours in that case?” I inquired.

“Yes!!” everyone shouted.

“Divine intervention has brought me here this day,” I announced solemnly. “Our efforts have the approval of On High. This is a holy moment. I have brought some rolls of Charmin: both the old cut and the new cut.”

“WHEN’S THE GODDAMN SHITTING START??????” someone hollered.

“As soon as the rolls are changed,” I assured the fellow.

“Someone take the Scott off and take it outside and put it on a chair in the sand and use it to test the flattening aspects of various steel-jacketed hollow points which is its intended purpose anyway as far as I’m concerned.”

The New And Vastly Improved Charmin having been installed, the first shitter was a fellow named…well maybe his name isn’t necessary. He took what he insisted was a hearty dump and he got up into kind of a bent over squat and we, some of us, took a looksee, and he had a pretty good collection of dung coilage in there and we had him sit back down and get busy with the Charmin.

He spun the roll and got a good ten or twenty feet of toilet paper collected in one hand and then I said, “Ok, tear it off.”

He gave it a good yank and sure enough it was a clear wavy progression of edge both on the section in his hand and the section on the roll.

“Ok, you’re done!” I said.

“What about wiping?” He said.

“Oh, I don’t care about the wiping. Just the tearing of the paper,” I said.

He said “Why is the fucking tearing of the goddamn sheet more important than if the part you actually removed from the roll does or doesn’t clean your fucking ass?”

I said “….What?…..” a bit confused.

He bellowed “WHO THE FUCKING CARES HOW IT MOTHERFUCKING TEARS!”

I went into a slight trance. Almost a reverie. Even though he was still sitting on the toilet, his pants down past his knees, I went forward towards him and bending down, I firmly gripped each shoulder as he looked up at me with an expression I interpreted as him deciding whether or not to extract the Bowie knife from his cascaded trousers and ram it into my abdomen.

I said, quietly and in awe, “You are a genius.”

“I am?” he said, in a sudden reversal of expression from feral to perplexed.

I proclaimed, “That is the entire makings of a rival product’s advertising campaign! ‘Who the fucking cares…. how it motherfucking tears” is how a rival toilet paper company, even Scott, could combat the campaign of Charmin’s ‘we’re saving the earth and your ass too’ toilet paper’ mantra. Even though, if you ask me, it’s actually thinner than the straight-line-cut paper. It’s almost transparent. Seems to me you would need twice as much to get the same amount of shitsmear on the wad once you pulled it around to take a look at it.

“Anyway what you have created sitting here on the hitter, over and above the shit itself, is the slogan ‘who the fucking cares how it motherfucking tears.’ In fact the only thing missing from ‘Who the fucking cares….how it motherfucking tears’ are the words Burma Shave.”

“You wanna take your hands off my shoulders?” the guy said, kind of like in an ultimatum tone.

“Oh! Sure!” I said, backing away. “Sorry! I went kind of into a trance.”

“You really think I’m a genius?“ the guy said, now actually wiping his ass.

“I do indeed, my friend. I do indeed.”

“You gonna steal my slogan?” He inquired blandly, flushing and then unravelling another handload of wavy-cut toilet paper and readministering about a balled-up pound of it down and around his cheek and up into his ass.

“Well I’m sure somebody is, sooner or later.” I said.

“Pisser,” the guy said, flushing and hauling another truckload of paper off the roll.

“Is it still tearing cleanly?” I asked, remembering why I was there in the first place.”

“Fuck if I know,” the guy said, going under and up once again. “And like I say: who the fuck cares.”

I said, “Well….the Charmin CEO apparently cares. And the World Press, apparently cares. Oh, and remember, ‘who the fucking cares how it motherfucking tears’ is a pretty good idea for a rival shitpaper-outfit commercial. You’re quite the Madison Avenue Grey Flannel Suit dude.”

The fellow said, “Well who the fuck DOES care how it tears.” I looked at him pathetically since I now realized the beauty of a properly torn Charmin shit-magnet. “The Earth cares, my friend. The Earth cares.”

The fellow blurted, “The earth cares how I wipe my ass! Is that what you’re saying?”

“Her name is Gaia,” I said benevolently, suddenly filled with CEO wisdom. He looked at the new large wad of about fifty sheets of toilet paper in his mitt, one of the sheets torn cleanly in a sine-wave undulation and said, ”At least I don’t have a leftover shard of paper as a result of an errant bisection of the roll,” saying this with some obvious sincerity. “And that alone is gonna save me a ton of money,” he added redirecting the giant wad to underneath his ass and starting the shit-removal process. “Gonna need another two or three yards o’ this paper ‘fore I’m done with THIS job,” he said. “Chili, sauerkraut, cabbage, plum pie and Bud Lite: gonna have a lotta surprises comin’ out my butthole THIS day,” he added.

“You drink enough Bud Lite you’re butthole’s gonna have a lotta surprises goin’ the OTHER direction too,” I said reassuringly, heading back toward the bar.

“Don’t need THAT HAHAHAHA!!” he yelled as I moved off.

Someone came up to me excitedly and practically stammered, “What if the roll of toilet paper had the curvy serrations going up the middle of the roll instead from side to side??”

I actually thought about this for a very long time. At last and finally I said, “Well, I’m thinkin’ it’s pretty obvious, and I could be wrong, but you would only have two sheets per roll in that case. Two real long ones. PLUS you take two dumps?…. in two days you’d need another roll.”

He said, “Wouldn’t the CEO of Charmin, though, see that as a good idea? Based on their sudden track record of what they see as good ideas? Which is: seeing really stupid ideas as good ideas. I mean, they’re going to outstrip Disney if they keep this up.”

I was on the phone to Proctor&Gamble in two seconds. The Use Just Twice roll was about to be born–J.J. Solari

Epilogue: Not since the revolutionary Charmin ad campaign of “Enjoy the Go” with a proud male bear showing his backside to the other family members, rendering them hysterical with happiness has an ass-maintenance innovation generated so much enthusiasm as the scalloping of the separation perforations of Charmin toilet paper.

Naturally the insistent question is “How is this accomplished?” That’s why next time we will go the remote section of the already-remote Mojave Desert where the machine that creates the cut is located on a one square mile array of industrial technological super-science. A machine left open and exposed to the elements and made out of “malleable titanium,” the Defeater Of The Errant Remnant, as it has been nicknamed, resides open and defiant of the elements, and impervious to spies, malware, and sabotage, it hums and glistens 24 hours a day creating the New Anus-Sourced Happiness For All, where “enjoying the go” is being grandly transformed into “Your Ass Is Now A God” status.

endo

Editor’s Note: We’ve stared at wonderful boobs with longing and allure all our lives. We’ve become aroused by the sight of tender nipples showing through a shear blouse. We could be in the worst imaginable conditions, on a sinking ship, in a blizzard or a war zone, and the sight and notion of touching the golden orbs transforms us. Suddenly we’re in a warm and tender place away from all the chaos life throws at us.

Sam Burns inspired me the other day, when he sent me a magnificent assemblage of beautiful women images. We couldn’t let them linger in a file without showing respect and love. Enjoy.

The Boob Transformation

Jimmy worked in a Junkyard. Scruffy and filthy, his boots covered in grease, he mounted his Sportster and rode home, where he cleaned up the best he could. Partially balding, with a slight beard and the same flannel and vest he wore for 20 years he mounted his scooter. With a pocket fulla ones he road to Ship Wreck Joey’s the only titty bar in the industrial port town.

With one beer he sipped all night he sat in front of a curtain-wrapped stage and waited patiently for Rosa, the Hispanic goddess to move with old R&B tunes around her polished brass pole. Jimmy was her biggest fan and not only for her magnificent round, soft as silk boobs, but she smiled with those big dark eyes at him like she was his long lost love and he had just returned from war.

From time to time on slow nights with limited action they would find themselves in a booth under dim pink lights. She leaned back against the faux leather interior and let him touched her softness. He could cuddle against her warmth, smell her Chanel perfume and know all was well in a world where milk and honey seemed so distant. Always enough to keep him going until the next time, he rode home with a smile on his face.

The Cure for Violence

Snake, rode a fast FXR. Every day of his life was on edge. He dealt drugs for a cartel he never saw, but if they didn’t like how he did something he paid a heavy price.

As paranoid as a black lab crossing a wide, unlit, asphalt highway, Snake went about his business running drugs to various bike clubs along the coast. Everything about his trapped existence smelled of treachery. No one trusted him and he trusted no one.

Daily he rode to the ghetto for his stash and to turn in the profits. Every day, his life was threatened by the cartel. Menaced while splitting lanes in bumper to bumper traffic, he watched closely for the Man and then his club guys customers. With narrow shades, a black leather vest, black long-sleeve shirt with pearl buttons, he packed constantly, rode fast and tried to keep his club connections to one man per MC.

Everything about his life was hard, fast and packed with deceitfulness, except for her. No one knew and he didn’t dare mention her to anyone, but when times were tough and he was forced to pull his stiletto, there was one room filled with solace, comfort, warmth and love.

Only with her could he nuzzle against her mounds of joy and forget his life completely. Her softness, those golden nipples, her warmth and her lips so precious each kiss took him to a world of peace, warmth and trust. Her baby blues locked with his dark eyes and he was transformed. They spoke little, he held her close and hope returned.

A Woman’s Understanding

Laurie moved around her apartment in a daze. Her life wasn’t packed with security or even a modicum of joy. She worked a minimum wage job and struggled with her faltering health. Her little VW bug coughed and sputtered on her way to work. She attended her evangelistic church twice a week, once on Sunday for the half day of barking sermons and Wednesday nights for bible classes. Even though she strained financially, she tithed and prayed constantly.

But once a week, she caught the rumble of a motorcycle entering her street. Loud and powerful the Shovelhead chopper sounded like a locomotive and her life suddenly changed. Here religion made her question her involvement with this biker as she listened for his engineer boots against the wooden steps. But she couldn’t deny the sensation, the tingle or her hardening nipples.

She freshened her make-up, tossed her hair and unbuttoned her blouse. Her boobs were large magnificent orbs of heavenly softness and as soon as he touched them her world changed for the better. Her large amber nipples called out to him erect and tingling.

The dichotomy was amazing as his rough exterior stood before her, long shaggy hair, full beard, rough black leathers and filth. His hands calloused from oil field work, his boots grimy, but his eyes were clear and warm. He looked at her angelic softness, her dreamy gaze, her rosy cheeks and kissed her deeply. It was as if he had no business being in her glowing heavenly presence, but as he removed her blouse and ran his hands alongside her magnificent softness and touched her nipples, she nearly climaxed.

For long moments they were both transformed from the struggles of life and the violence of the streets to the most natural Nirvana on the planet.

For days after he left, she could shower, close her eyes, run her hands down her mounds of joy, touch her stimulated nipples and remember that there really is heaven on earth.

The First Touch

A small baby boy was born on a mattress in the basement of a tenement house in East Prussia, Poland in September of 1939 as Germany invaded.

From September 1 to October 5 Germans shelled Pomerania. Polish soldiers were out gunned and held no chance of fending off the attack from the Nazi reign of terror. Natalia stood 5’6” tall and slim, she cleaned herself, grabbed her new baby and fled to the streets barefoot wearing a silk slip and a tarnished cotton dress.

Several local women helped her and insisted that she stay, but Natalia refused, made a satchel of torn garments and scarves to hang the baby around her neck in a sling nestling between her boobs. She made her way into the streets, not knowing where to go or where she would find their next meal.

Tanks rumbled over cobblestone lanes leveling homes and buildings at their whim. Rubble stacked as buildings crumbled and burst into flames. Screams and explosions filled the air, but the baby remained silent wrapped securely and tucked between her breasts. She moved quickly away from the action into alleys and side streets hoping to escape the melee.

At one point as the sun set, she untucked the child, kissed his forehead and looked into the smoke filled sky as the fleeting sun glimmered through the plumes of black soot. “I’m naming you Alek from Aleksander the defender of mankind,” she muttered, covered his face and pressed him to her ample breasts.

Less than three weeks passed and a 150-pound bomb collided with the building where Natalia attempted to sleep with her newborn. Leaving everything behind she scrambled out of the rubble surrounded by flying debris and clouds of concrete dust, her baby nestled carefully between her bouncing boobs. Covered in dirt, scratched and torn by the shrapnel she finally discovered a clearing in the rainy muck where she unleashed one of her massive boobs and allowed Alek to suckle his breakfast.

His meals, constant and unwavering came right on time, then he closed his delicate eyes to the turmoil and fell asleep in the torn satchel between the unchanging warmth of her boobs. Another month passed as she attempted to avoid capture by the Nazis.

Natalia finally found herself hidden by a family in their barn. For a few days she experienced meager comfort and regular food. A warm new-to-her sweater hung on her shoulders. Hand-me-down shoes secured her feet and she was afforded a place to bathe along with Alek.

He didn’t understand the wetness, the warmth or the smell of smoke, but for the first time his mother smelled different, delicate and even softer as he touched her bare skin. Two days later, in the barn, gun-fire exploded. Screams filled the air with angry barks from men. Suddenly he was torn from his mother’s grasp and flung onto a pile of hay.

He heard her scream, then plead, but then more gunfire, groans and quiet. He wondered, barely two months old what had happened. Wrapped, unable to see, for the first time the warmth, the touch of her soft flesh and the beating of her heart was gone.

His mind whirled with emotion but he dare not scream. He attempted to reach, and then he heard her sobbing as she picked him up, pushed the hay particles away and hugged him close. She uncovered his face and he could see her tears. Saved from potential rape, she placed the satchel strap over her head once more and cupped him in her secure cleavage.

He reached out and touched the soft flesh of her boob and felt the warmth. Her beating heart slowed and once again he was at peace.

Prison Blues

Prison officers pushed big, buffed Samson in shackles into his new home in cell block number 9 at Folsom Prison. It was all a mistake but he knew it was the unrelenting condition of his outlaw life.

Samson 6’4” and 240 pounds of solid muscle took Knock-Out, his babe for life to an upscale restaurant in Downtown San Francisco. The town switched from romance and seaside views to a mini-3rd World country overlooking the San Francisco Bay.

Why anyone voted for destruction of one of the most picturesque cities in the world was beyond the big guy as he led his petite girl behind the guiding matri’d to their table.

Knock-out also trained and looked as hot as a smoking pistol in a form fitting, black, silk gown that hugged every elegant curve as if spray painted with a pearlescent touch enhanced every delicious shape. Every guy in the joint noticed. Her soft as satin boobs spilled over the split neckline cut to the edge of her tender areolas.

Their perfect evening interrupted by homeless and drug addicts in the streets calmed in the soft, candle-enhance dining room as she slipped into the booth. Samson sat down across from her, when a tall slippery sort stepped up and opened his white sport coat to reveal a .45 Ivory-handled, semi-auto in a hand tooled waist band holster.

“Man, she looks fine enough to eat,” Ricky the 6-foot mafia sort, with slick black hair and polished pointed shoes said.

Samson began to get to his feet.

“Not a good move,” Ricky said and pressed on Samson’s massive shoulder with his right ringed hand and started to reach for the Colt in his waistband with his left.

“You failed your homework assignment,” Samson said, grabbed a polished silver fork and drove it into Ricky’s thigh.

Rick the scumbag from Chicago, who thought he could move to Frisco and take advantage of the open drug scene didn’t know the history he faced. Samson, an ex-1%er for over two decades held Knock-out’s hand in High School. They were meant for each other.

As they grew, trained, fought, built and moved forward in life, they became like a team for good and against evil. Samson stood abruptly. Rick stumbled back, grabbing for the semi-auto, he looked down at Knock-out’s succulent cleavage. Big mistake.

Samson blocked the weapon with his right hand, rolled his palm until the pistol turned into a Judo move breaking Ricky’s thumb. Samson dropped the weapon and hit Ricky in the neck with an open palm.

Usually, that was it. Ricky would fall to the floor and crawl back to his table, but he was dead before he hit the carpet.

Samson recognized his wide eyes and motioned for Knock-out to follow, but before they reached the bottom stairs for the exit, cops surrounded the building and Samson was ultimately convicted of 2nd degree murder.

Unshackled, and given a manilla envelope he sat on his cell bunk and opened it. It contained his sentencing materials signed by the judge. A few personal affects, like his watch, a pen, a pad of lined legal paper and an 8-by-10 shot of Knock-out. He smiled and set the photograph above his stainless steel mirror.

The black-and-white photo of her smiling face and those magnificent boobs were all he needed to survive five years in Folsom, fighting punks, drug addicts, slippery sons-a-bitches, anything and anyone. He’d survive and her nipples would wait for him on the outside. It didn’t matter what they threw at him, her image would remind him of the soft warmth in her arms.

The Bad Boob

As a teenager, mentally badgered in youth, Vickie acclimated to more tomboy characteristics and dodged the female code of softness. An angry countenance enveloped her being. Constantly on guard, she grew up tall and angular, but then recognized the power of her fine feminine side and her own unrelenting sexual desire. She couldn’t get enough.

She trained and worked waiting tables for enough cash to buy a set of bolt-ons. From that day forward her life changed. She used those torpedo boobs to her advantage, although the rest of her wasn’t much to shout about. She tried Botox lips, but then couldn’t kiss passionately.

She enjoyed sex, often but mostly for personal gain. She worked men into a boob frenzy then took from them and moved on.

She banged her way through several relationships, fucked her bosses then extorted from them, destroyed their families and got them fired.

She missed the mammary memo at a young age. As she matured her looks waned, her wanton slipped and her emotional well-being was left without the cherished love her boobs were capable of enhancing in her life.

Bada-bing!