Romance Ricky spent ten years in Iraq. About to go home, he grappled with his mission. Before his time in the service, he enjoyed the fruits of his lovers. A stout, good-looking sort he rode a Panhead chopper and chased women, but like so many young men he didn’t understand the code. Most of the broads he chased didn’t get it either.

He pursued them on the west coast, in Wyoming, Denver, Minneapolis, wherever there was a bar with a girl in tight denims and a bright smile. He caught the clap in Orange County, her boobs like mountains. He got ripped off from an alcoholic in Montana who fucked for fuel. He faced religion with a soft-like-satin girl from a temperance league, who climaxed at the slightest touch.

After five years on the road and too many fifths of Jack Daniels he began to get it, but too late. He got a call from a past love from Bakersfield, California. They met in a farmer’s barn. Pregnant, she had demands, lawyers and the man. He made restitution, paid child-support and joined the service as she disappeared. Beyond cute, she held the shape of a goddess, the smile of a temptress, the eyes of a vulture and the whisper of a rattlesnake. She was no good and determined to punish anyone who touched her precious pussy. They paid, they bought her stuff, took her places, or she got pregnant – and they paid anyway.

No interest in Ricky, she continued to shack up in a constant search for the motherlode. But Ricky’s kid cramped her lascivious style and she tired of the responsibility.

Like so many heartless bitches, she rolled the dice time after time, until she fucked with the wrong dude and ended up in a ditch along highway 99 in mid-state California next to cattle fields. Older and wiser, Ricky returned from overseas and began searching for his son. He sold the chopper, bought a Dyna Glide and hit the road.

He still paid child support and it went somewhere, hopefully to the kid. Still in worn khakis, he rode to downtown LA to Child Services. The checks still sent to a P.O. Box in Bakersfield weren’t cashed. Ricky rode to the central valley with everything he owned in his bags. He found himself at a police station answering questions about Shirley, who was found in a ditch. “But what about my kid,” Ricky asked.

“One in ten thousand find homes,” the detective said as he closed the file. “We will find who dumped your old lady.”

“More of a one-night stand,” Ricky said and thought about the fleeting time he had with Shirley and her nasty voice on the phone.

“I need to find the kid,” Ricky said. The officer led him to another office in the city building, “Child Protective Services.”

A large black female clerk who managed all the cases for abandoned kids in the growing, mostly agricultural and oil town of 400,000, looked at him with depressed eyes. “Can I help you?”

“I just found out the mother of my abandoned son was murdered,” Rick said hoping for clues. “I need to find my kid.”

“You’re looking for your kid?” Gloria said and her eyes brightened.

“Yeah, he could be about twelve years old. I’ve been in Iraq and never met him.” Ricky said.

“Have you paid child support?” Gloria said, in a questioning tone while beginning to hit the keys on her computer.

“From the very beginning,” Ricky said. He pulled out a paper from Child Services in LA and handed it to her. It documented his account and where the checks were sent.

“You’re kidding,” Gloria said. “You’ve never seen your kid, but paid child support all this time and now you want to find him?

“Yep,” Ricky said.



“You’re amazing,” Gloria stuttered, “I won’t have a father like you come in here in five years. Let’s see what we can find. His name is Don and he was assigned to a foster home in Rosedale a couple of years ago, but that didn’t work out. He’s been assigned to a group home on the Southside of Bakersfield, but the reports don’t look good. He’s having problems. The next step down is Juvenile Hall or prison depending on what he gets into.” Gloria looked up at him with sad eyes. “You need to go see him, quick.” She handed him a slip of paper with an address in Terra Vista.

“Good luck,” she said and patted his hand.

The afternoon sun blazed on the streets of Bakersfield as he turned down Planz Road heading into the Hispanic section of town. He peeled down one street after another deeper into a residential district, until one house stuck out on Rio Bravo street lined with ‘50s Hispanic lathe-and-plaster homes. The unkept bungalow teetered dilapidated. As he approached, a 20-something burst onto the porch and tossed a beer can into the weeds, “No beer allowed!” he shouted.

“Excuse me,” Ricky said scrambling off his bike after kicking out the kickstand. “My son might be in your home.”

“We monitor three group homes within a couple of miles from here,” Pepe said and pushed his long scrambled dark hair out of his face. “I work here parttime and go to college at Bakersfield Community College.”

“The kids name is Don Cavalier.” Ricky said.

“Great name,” Pepe said, “Let’s see if he’s on the roster, but it doesn’t sound familiar. The tougher kids are in the Rosemont house with the more senior counselors. We are always welcoming of parents. Don’t see many.”

Pepe took him inside, where the rooms were set up as dorms. A great room and kitchen reminded Ricky of chow halls in the service. The room lined with large white charts, listing felt pen scratched names, assignments and goals. Kids lounged in various donated couches and chairs gawked at Ricky in his fatigues and a leather shirt, carrying his full faced helmet.

“Is he some kind of cop,” one smart-assed kid murmured and sat up. As his guilt surfaced and the thought of arrest threatened, he looked for the slider into the backyard and escape.

“He’s Don’s Dad,” Pepe said. “Just back from Iraq.”

All the boys, spread out around the room sat up. They didn’t see many parents around. A parent, unless drunk, was a very respected and welcome sight.

Ricky immediately noted that even the toughest looking kid seemed sorta incomplete without the attachment to his family unit. He scratched his three-day-old beard and pondered the situation. He wished he could help all of them.

Enrique, a short little kid in the corner stood up. “I remember Don,” he said and looked at the slider. “He got into too many fights, broke this slider with a kid’s head. They moved him to Stone Creek, his last shot.”

“Can I go?” Ricky asked Pepe.

“I’ll call over there,” Pepe said and reached for his cell.

“Better not mention who is coming,” Ricky said. “I don’t want to cause a problem.”

“No sweat,” Pepe said dialing. “You never know how kids will react or what they were told.”

“Do you think he knows about his mom?” Ricky asked.

Pepe looked concerned. “There’s a serious problem over there.”

“Where?” Ricky asked anxiously, grabbing for his helmet and heading for the door pronto.

Pepe pointed and gave him directions. Ricky ran out the door across the lawn to his Dyna and was down the street in a hot flash, burning onto the boulevard and across to the other side of town onto McKee Road.

He slid up to the scruffy looking group home and ran for the door as a police car rounded the other end of the block and drove across the sidewalk onto the tattered lawn.

The same detective burst out of the cruiser. “You’re here?” Officer Fernandez asked.

“Just arrived,” Ricky said and they both ran for the door as another uniform ran around back.

A short, round Hispanic woman met them at the door with blood on her hands. “Another fight,” she said and led them inside. She took a second look at the soldier looking guy with the motorcycle helmet. “Who’s this?” Maria said snatching a towel.

“A father looking for his kid,” the detective said.

Inside one of the dorm rooms, a fat kid laid on his back with his nose busted and a nasty cut on his face. “He’s the bully,” Maria said. “I knew he would find his match someday.”

“I’m Don’s dad,” Ricky said. “I take it my kid did this.”

“He’s confused, Senor,” Maria said, “ever since he heard about his mom. Never knew about a dad.”

“Just out of the service and looking for my kid,” Ricky said.

“He ran off,” Maria said. “You need to find him before the authorities or worse get ahold of him.

“But where now?” Rick asked.

“The kids talk of two means to escape,” the officer looked hard at Maria.

“Yeah,” Maria said as the EMT crew came in to take care of the kid on the grungy carpeted floor. She steered Ricky and the detective toward the outside and the dimming light from the setting sun. Still 85 degrees on the streets, she looked at the officer and toward Ricky. “They talk about help in the Cottonwood area and drugs on the eastside around Wible.”

“Most of them don’t know what the hell to do,” Officer Fernandez said. “Both places are no-win. Just depends on their level of desperation. Hell, he could try to hitchhike out of the area.”

“Fuck,” Ricky said. “Too many options and no time. If only I could’ve talked to him for a minute or took him for a ride.”

Maria took Ricky’s arm. “Most parents give up when it comes to…

“I’m not giving up,” Ricky snapped but looked deep into her caring eyes. “I’ll find him, but I would rather find him now, than after a drug dealer does. He’s tough, he’s not going to be abused in some child-sex ring.”

“I’ll send a couple of units along the highway looking for hitchhikers,” Office Fernandez said. “I’ll let the highway patrol know to watch out for him on Highway 58.”

“I’m headed to the east side,” Ricky said and reached out to Maria. “Where the fuck am I going?”




She pointed at the street and gave him directions over two blocks to the main thoroughfare, right for a half mile and you’ll be there on East Pacheco Road. He plowed into tweaker zone without a clue in the world where to go. The Eastside of Bakersfield was a failed community of strip malls, stucco and concrete. The homes were all the same and falling down. The strip malls were filled with similar businesses from pot shops, massage parlors and saloons, all with the same boxy infrastructure. Just the faded signs changed.

Ricky blasted up and down the boulevard looking for a kid he didn’t know. He could only surmise the size and shape. He saw a crowded pot shop, Devil’s Brew, the parking lot jammed with a crazy array of vehicles including rusting pickups, choppers, worn-out sedans and even a flashy sportscar or two.

Ricky scoped it out and found a safe place to stash his Dyna. He walked through the parking area to the blacked-out, glass front door with the silver-leaf Devil’s logo and pinstriping, while checking out the patrons. He knew a tweaker when he saw one. With security at the front Ricky moved around back. The pot shop expanded into the shop next door through an inside wall. Ricky could tell, because the rear door was locked down tight, but the door for the empty shop next door was surrounded by guys looking shady, making quick deals and dashing off.

A stash of bicycles leaned against the stained stucco wall and when kids approached, they were handed small packages and a note. They’d grab a bicycle and peel off in several directions. As quickly as the sales effort started, it stopped and the new steel door shut tight.

Ricky felt lost. None of the kids looked the correct stature or like a new recruit. He made his way around front where Superfly blasted from a speaker hanging from one long drywall screw. He spotted one of the security guards walking away from the front door and lighting a cigarette. He watched intently as most of the vehicles moved away from the parking area into the night.

As he puffed on the butt, the buffed black kid moved toward Ricky’s Dyna. They were similar stature, so Ricky approached. “Like it?” Ricky asked and startled the young security guard.

“Ah, ya,” he said. “I want one.” Then he turned and glared at Ricky. “What the fuck is it to you?”

Ricky raised his hands as if surrendering. “Nothing man,” Ricky said. “I rode up here to find my kid. It’s a long story, but he might be in trouble.”

“All the kids around here are in trouble,” security said and stepped back from Rick, sorta checking himself for combat.

“I’m not a cop,” Ricky said. “Just looking for my kid, before it’s too late.”

“They train the new ones downtown at the strip club,” security said and kept his distance, looking around for a sting crew. “It’s at Gare’s Circle on the corner, the Déjà Vu Club.”

“Thanks,” Ricky said and made his way quickly to his motorcycle, straddled it, pulled on his helmet and gloves, nodded to the guard and fired it to life. It sounded like a locomotive cranking up to get underway in the dry, dark air.

“Which way,” Ricky shouted and the security guard pointed. Ricky’s Dyna disappeared in the night.

Nearing midnight, he rapidly rolled into the historic downtown Bakersfield area and found himself surrounded by the glittering lights of a strip club on the busy corner. It seemed odd, but he jammed around the block to look for bicycles and kids. He found the bikes out back in a dank alley.

He pulled around front and parked across the intersection quickly and hung his helmet on the handlebars. Making his way across the busy intersection he found the front door where a security guard checked over the short soldier in camo and allowed him entrance.

Once inside, the massive layout of the joint hit him, disco-balls glimmering over several stages, girls on every platform doing their thing with polished brass poles. The crowded joint distracted him, but suddenly he focused on the flashing lights and a small troop of kids moving from table to table, selling something.

He also noticed a big rough-looking bearded fucker heading his way. He looked to be Iranian. It was then that he spotted a kid showing another youngster his stash of small zip-lock bags of meth. The kid seemed about the right stature. As the music blared, the vibrating lights did their thing to the stages, waitresses slipped from table to table delivering drinks and taking orders, Ricky hollered. “Don.”

The kid jerked and looked over his shoulder to the stout soldier-looking man on the other side of the stage. The kid saw Ricky, then the girl on the stage moving to the beat of Sly and the Family Stone. She was amazing, nearly nude and her out-thrust boobs would stop a train. Ricky, also mesmerized by her shape, size and glistening smile was sidetracked. She enjoyed her trance on men as much as the patrons did and made eye contact with Ricky standing behind the tables.

Suddenly, an open hand smacked Ricky’s chest and the boss, who’d been alerted by security back at the Pot Shop, confronted Ricky, who immediately stepped back with one leg and spun to dislodge the attack. He moved to the side of the attacker and looked for Don across the room.

The diversion afforded the bearded-one a jab to Ricky’s solar plexus. Ricky buckled and the big guy yanked him toward the door. With a sweeping arm, Ricky motioned for Don to follow and hoped for the best.

Little Don shoved the goods back into the hands of his trainer and bolted around the stage as police charged in the front doors and shouted. “This is a raid!”

Officer Fernandez jammed in behind them followed by anxious uniforms. The bearded-one stood bolt upright, let go of Ricky as the kid came to his side. The tough guy bolted for an exit but was nabbed by a uniformed officer.

Little Don wrapped his arm around Ricky’s pumped bicep as officer Fernandez grabbed his other arm and looked at the kid. “So, you found your dad. He’s been looking for you all day.”

Ricky regained his breath, stood upright, nodded to the officer and looked down at Don. “Wanna ride to Hollywood?”

“Fuck yeah,” Don said.

“Watch your language, kid,” Ricky said and put his arm around him as they bolted out the flashy front doors.

Vintage Motorcycle Racing – Daytona Beach was and is where it’s at!

 

 1937 was the first year the Daytona 200 Motorcycle Race was run on the packed sand track on Daytona Beach. This race is where it all started…the origin of Bike Week. Racing was the main focus of the event, with the  beach course approximately 4.2 miles of  sand and was located south of Daytona Beach. The race was postponed for 5 years during World War II, but Bike Week still carried on.  

 Over the years, there were amateur and pro races, at times having more than 375 racers kicking up the sand. In 1948, the average speed was 84mph. That same year, an Indian motorcycle was the race champion.   Today, a monument located at 100 N. Atlantic Avenue, Daytona Beach stands in memory of the beach races of yesteryear. Beach Racers still meet during Bike Week for their “Over the Hill Gang” annual breakfast, and there is also an annual service at the Monument honoring the history of the Daytona 200 Motorcycle Beach Race.

 Along with the evolution of Bike Week, The Daytona 200  has since been moved to blacktop  of the Daytona International Speedway. And decades later, Billy Lane resurrected the board track racing tradition and brings alive Sons of Speed racing at New Smyrna Speedway, which is one half mile asphalt track with a 20degree bank.

 Perfect October weather – great track conditions – and the home town crowd made for

An exciting afternoon of old iron, some newer faces, and an overall great event!   This is the 6^th year since Sons of Speed was launched during Bike Week in 2017, rescheduled due to the hurricane that damaged the track in October, 2016. 

Trey Clark, Master of Ceremonies did well perched high up in the crows nest (he doesn’t like heights!!!) – with Chris Callen/Cycle Source Magazine as Flagman.

The Welcome Crew: Erin Lane and assistant at the front Gate.

Sponsor: Journey Biker Church –

Tom Banks/Banks Brothers Motorcycles – waving ‘em on Trackside. 

How many heads?????

EAT FLORIDA SEAFOOD!!!

Tools of the trade in the pits!

Old Time Trackside!!!

He found the Guiseppe”s Pizza!!!! Mangiare – Mangiare!!!

Thumbs Up!!!!! Track is Clear!!!

Warm up lap!!!! Stock 45 Class.

Hot 45 Warms up!!!

#313 – Randy Haward – Legends Class – 30 Single

#97 – In Deep Thought. 

Getting closer!!!! I got this!!!!

Neck in Neck….sooooo close!!!!

Flagged at the Finish Line!

Made It!!!!!!!!!!!

Nick Hunter Crosses the Line!!!!!!!

Nick Hunter JR

Jay Wright – Stock 45

Luke Atkinson edges out Chuck Kitchen – Stock 45

Trophies of the day!!! –

And they’re off!!!! HOT 45 Class

And the winner was…………..Michael Lange #50!!!!!!!

Stock 45 Class – Winner was Byron Bartley #74!!!!!

Michael Lange #21X raced to take home Hot 61 First!!!!!

Legends Class – 30 Single – #97 – Rich Packer – brought it home!!!!

 …Ya just had to be there….get your seats early and catch the 2024 Bike Week Sons of Speed Race at the New Smyrna Speedway.

 Cya there!

 Links:

 https://billylane.net

 https://officialbikeweek.com

 https://daytona200monument.com

 

The Governor of New Mexico, a character named Michelle Grisham, made what I consider to be one of the great advances in tyranny since the C-19 Circus of Shit. Now, I have to say right out the gate that she didn’t actually succeed. But she did show the way to upcoming tyrants, and of course also showed the way to present ones anxious to try out new things.

What she did was to declare a fucking inanimate object……“a public health crisis.”

I know what your saying, “What was the inanimate object, a fucking football stadium full of Strontium 90?”

Hahahahaha No! Good one! And I think it’s safe to say a football stadium full of Strontium 90 will fucking NEVER be declared a fucking health crisis. One reason being, unless you’re an imbecilic fucking bureaucrat, everyone already knows to stay the fuck away from the shit! So, yeah, Strontium 90 exists. And it’s really dangerous. But it doesn’t spread. And you don’t have to isolate and lockdown a population when Strontium 90 turns up somewhere. Because it doesn’t fucking spread. The Strontium 90 is isolated instead. Not the populace. Because it stays put. And no one ever demonstrates or calls national emergencies or declares a public health crisis against this practice. Which is one way you know that NOT declaring the existence of Strontium 90 somewhere as being a “public health crisis”….is actually sensible.

Which brings us to Governor Grisham.

To Governor Grisham, she considers herself a gal on the move. So why wait for something as bizarre and arcane and unlikely as Strontium 90 to show up to call it a health crisis – which she probably would do: no, I want to be President someday, let’s do something Presidential, or in other words, off-the-chart, Trudeau/Biden/Harris/Ocasio-level stupid: let’s call inert base metal that just sits there – which would be a PISTOL – a health hazard. No wait, let’s call it a health crisis. No wait: let’s call certain-shaped wads of inert metal AN ASS-KICKING PUBLIC HEALTH EMERGENCY!! I think is the way she put it.

She declared a non-radioactive construction of inert metal – pistols – to be capable of something that SO FAR in human history or even in METAL history has never been associated with the spread of disease: she declared inert-welding-material – pistols…….. a public health emergency.

Now, she didn’t just dream all this shit up out of the blue after a dose of LSD. No. She had precedent to go on. She was not the first piece of shit bureaucrat to test the waters of tyrannical sociopathy. She had the World Health “Organization:” the Center for Disease Control; every piece of shit “news’ apparatus on earth; the need to get rid of Trump; the cowardly traditions of the medical profession; and the relentless stupidity of Authority-Dependent Humanity to help her onward to new heights of Fuckutopia.

She was VERY LIKELY inspired to attempt this due to the worldwide success of “doctors” suddenly being declared by “world leaders” as having the political run of entire countries and cities. Of course, they DIDN’T have any political power but the people who DO said “Our hands are tied: doctors know what they are doing. We have to trust them.” So, then the people with the actual power – which isn’t the doctors – used the doctors as excuses….to go into tyranny mode. And fucking get away with it. Because, you know, “doctors’ orders.” You can’t go against those. For some reason. Meanwhile 99.99999 percent of the doctors were going, looking around at each other……”Is there a health emergency?” Well, every news agency on earth said there was. Cause journalists don’t care. Turmoil is their daily bread on the table at Mom’s or their boyfriend’s house. The last thing a journalist wants is everyone being calm all the time. Where’s the news there.

So, this pile of human refuse called a “governor” declared firearms a health emergency. Do you think the New York Times staff of Ace Crack Pulitzer-Winning Safeguardians of a free and vibrant whatever-the-fuck-a-democracy-is raised the fucking journalistic roof over this Stalinesque perversion of reality? Do you think David Manure or George Squatenopolis or Rachel Madcow or George Willynilly blasted onto the scene declaring the brain of Rachel Grisham to be officially null and void due to her declaration of inert metals to be viral bacterial biological hazmat contagions of disease and animate spores of organic decay and slow debilitating death by infection?

I’ll escort you quietly through this: No. They did not. They stayed their course of emphasizing threats to our sacred democracy caused by Elon Musk: and praising the beauties of inclusivity, diversity, intersectionality, sustainability and empowerment; and condemning the evils of oil production, the use of water, the use of air conditioners, the use of social media, and the existence of Donald Trump; they remained outraged at the injustice of there being only two declared sexes and the unfairness of hiring only competent people and the unfairness of not giving drug-addicted and sanity-free, plague-ridden psychopathic shitters on the sidewalks free hotel suites, free meals, free drugs and free public-shitting privileges; and continued announcing the need for cross-dressing flashers to visit classrooms of 6-year-olds and show them their penises and escort them to the bathrooms of their choice and help them pull down their pants.

And as for the Governor of New Mexico declaring inert metal a public health emergency?……Not a fucking word from our watchdogs of liberty, the American Journalist Society of Soldiers of The Free Press Guardians of Our Sacred Democracy.

You think governor Grisham has been FIRED for being an incompetent if not simple-minded pain in the fucking ass? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

–J.J. Solari

 Christy and I just came back from a ride on my 2022 Harley Ultra Limited to the Smokey Mountains. It is a really nice time of the year to do that with the weather and trees changing. As it turned out a lot of other people must have had the same motorcycling notion. Everywhere we went the majority of travelers were on motorcycles.

Stopped in Helen Georgia for lunch on the way north at The Two Tire Tavern for an adult beverage.

 We did take the opportunity to visit nine different Harley dealerships to pick up poker chips which we both collect from. We also snatched t-shirts from here and there. We decided to keep some of the other dealerships for future visits. There were more…

 Being from Florida where it is hard to find a hill, never mind a mountain, we took advantage of riding the fantastic lush Smokeys. Besides the Dragon there were plenty of other twisties and even the Great Smokey Mountains National Park. I saw deer and elk but no bears and that was okay. Rode through the twisty mountain roads during the daytime mostly, but some after nightfall and even slithered in light rain. Oh yeah, and the 18-wheeler that we met coming towards us in our lane. Just enough to make things interesting.

GPS wasn’t dependable in the mountains, so the HOG Harley Map, available everywhere, were a big help in getting from one place to another.

 There are numerous train rides through the mountains, and we took one of them. Even grabbed the opportunity to down some Moonshine while jiggling on the train.

 Of course, we went to Mel’s Diner while in Pidgeon Forge.

It started to get a little chilly, so we dressed warmly. The bonus was the Ultra comes from the factory with heated grips and I got one of the new Harley Heated Seats to try out. Oh Yeah, Say What Ya Want but they made for a more comfortable and enjoyable ride.

If you get the chance, I suggest you put this on your bucket list.

There’s a reason we’re fucked. It’s because we’re stupid.

This is a bread package from our kitchen. This bread, as you can clearly see, supports digestive health. Three words stuck together that have absolutely no communication value. “Supports” means it doesn’t fuck up your digestive health. It won’t say to your digestive health, “Gut some bad news for ya, pardner: me and you are parting company. It’s via vietcong con dios, mi compadre puto. No more digestive supportage for you.” In other words…… there is no actual meaning to “supports digestive health.” It supports it.

That means, if it means anything, it doesn’t fuck it up. It doesn’t fuck-up the health of your digestive. Your digestive stays totally healthed and intact when you eat this. It means it’s compatible with digestive health. You’ll notice it doesn’t say “digestion” health. That would ALMOST have a meaning and could possibly be actionable in a contrived lawsuit. Because all this jibberjabber is about avoiding lawsuits for making false claims. But if you make NO claims and disguise your meaningless random-word-generator enough to where it SEEMS to be saying something……the American Moron Voter will go “(burp) Guess I’ll buy this! It will make me digest healthier and more powerfully and with support! Like a fuckin’ jockstrap! The balls of my digestives will be supported and hoisted into glory!!! Creeflo?

Quit fuckin’ the mule and give a listen!…… I gut a jockstrap on my digestive balls!!!”

The words, “supports digestive health,” you may have noticed, assuming you notice things, have an explosion of light behind them. This is to convince you that these three words are like unto a visitation from Jesus, filled with light and understanding and a mind-awakening revelation of truth. “Supports digestive health” isn’t just THERE, it’s there with Holy Ghost Illumination radiating from the vaults of The Most High and bursting through the firmament like a nova releasing its elements unto the stars to create new worlds and abundant life.

“Supports digestive health” is thus not only NOT meaningless drooling slobber, it is in fact granted a place in the celestial plasma-field of enlightenment, with yellow rays of abundant, life-giving sunlight, that gives life to all, bursting off the cellophane and into your heart and mind and transforming words idiotically-assembled with no context or even a reason for existing into suddenly becoming incentives to ACTION: the action being you pick up whatever this circular lump of air is and walk it over to the cashier and trade some money for it in digestive health supportedness and inclusivitosity journied sustaintanceness. Halleluia.

–J.J. Solari

Editor’s Note: In our Weekly Thursday News for October 19th, 2023, we had featured excerpts of global mobility issues. It featured insight into the issues influencing and affecting mobility and EV from Bill Klehm, CEO of eMobillity solutions provider eBliss.

Refer that news article by clicking here.

* * *

Ujjwal Dey: Hi Bill,
I am very grateful for this learning opportunity. I am keen and concerned regarding various aspects of electronic vehicles. These are better understood through my questions in this correspondence interview. These questions focus primarily on US customers, and to some extent on Western European nations and UK. Let’s begin…

Is public transport using Electric Vehicles a feasible concept, considering initial expenditure, required infrastructure and cost of generating electricity—for a nation (USA) that prefers to possess their own vehicle for commuting?

Ujjwal Dey: Are some States in USA more likely to benefit from EVs compared to others? How bleak is the future availability and pricing of petrol, diesel and CNG / LPG (natural gasses)?

Ujjwal Dey: Some brands seem to believe hybrid is the immediate future. Isn’t hybrid EVs more practical concept to promote to the masses — in comparison to attempting to sell them a vehicle which may or may not work in another city / highway?

Ujjwal Dey: People in America have a passionate culture of customization and retro-fitting with aftermarket parts. EV brands seem to deny every scope of such right to customize a ‘property’ owned by the customer. Customers have to depend on authorized accessories. Also, it is no longer about the warranty becoming void through custom parts—the vehicle may not function at all.

Ujjwal Dey: Right to repair is another concern and culture associated with American vehicle owners. Vehicle owners work on their cars or motorcycles themselves or go to their preferred local garage. Big Tech and EV brands seem to deny this right of a customer who has paid for the product.

Bill Klehm: Again, I don’t see much difference here between ICE and EV. The Right to Repair Act has been around for decades and impacts almost everything we own. A car dealership’s perceived monopoly on repair is often cited as the reason we need this. The reality is however, you can take your car anywhere to be fixed or even attempt to do it yourself, if you dare. In the early years of any new vehicle, new car dealers have a monopoly on repairs for many reasons (warranty, special tools, technician training etc.), not because you MUST take it to the dealer. As models age however consumers rely on dealers less and less. I see this being the same with EVs once they become more commonplace.

Ujjwal Dey: How real is threat of poor cybersecurity, hacking of customer’s EV by miscreants, maybe even ransomware that may shutdown an entire city’s electric vehicles, related infrastructure or specifically a police fleet, ambulance, etc? How dangerous does this seem with consumer’s demand for customization and right-to-repair?

Bill Klehm: There is a lot that is unknown here, but cybersecurity is a problem today with ICE vehicles. An ICE-powered vehicle is still controlled by computers that can be hacked and shut down the vehicle remotely. I see a bigger risk in the charging infrastructure being attacked than the vehicle themselves.

Ujjwal Dey: Should electric vehicles be classified as a ‘service’ rather than a ‘product’? The customer seems to have very limited rights to their EV. It would be more apt to re-brand it as a ‘service’.

Ujjwal Dey: Motorsports will not exist if everyone is forced to use the EV as-is from OEM or authorized dealer. Same for outdoor-recreation vehicles. Any thoughts on this significant market that has contributed greatly to innovations in automotive industry in the past? (Imagine the flat-track racing rivalry of Harley-Davidson and Indian Motorcycles in 1930s and of course people such as Carroll Shelby. No customization? No right-to-repair?)

Ujjwal Dey: Surveillance used to be a domain of government agencies. Now it seems, hardware and software manufacturers of EVs will have incredible level of private data of citizens. Maybe data of anyone ever associated with a vehicle including family, friends, colleagues, etc. Of course, this is an existing problem for smartphone users and other digital gadgets / apps. Now it is being carried forward onto EVs. How will this be ‘managed’ by government/s or NHTSA? Is the future a SciFi adventure such as Philip K. Dick’s ‘The Minority Report’? Pre-emptive arrests of citizens?

Bill Klehm: This is not something that is an issue solely with EVs or automobiles for that matter. As I mentioned earlier, ICE vehicles are largely computer-controlled today, no different than an EV. And with things like over-the-air updates connecting the vehicle to the web, they are the same risk as any electronic device we own.

Ujjwal Dey: Lack of awareness and education about ‘assisted driving’ is causing serious accidents. They are not ‘self-driving’ cars but treated as such by their owners. Why shouldn’t there be a separate driving license test required for such vehicles?

Ujjwal Dey: Similarly, explosions caused by poorly designed circuits or poor quality of batteries, are yet another danger experienced by people. Startups in EV are offering innovations but also lacking the responsibility/liability faced by major brands. What are your thoughts on this?

Bill Klehm: While these are serious issues, generally I think people are overacting, especially the media (sorry). You may not be old enough to remember the exploding gas tanks on Ford Pintos, but I am. There have been numerous issues with auto design since the beginning and what we are seeing with EVs is just that. The auto manufacturers will figure this out, hopefully, sooner than later.

Ujjwal Dey: How feasible is recycling of electric vehicles and their components? People seem to exaggerate it to be same as discarded smartphones and laptops – i.e. toxic landfills.

Ujjwal Dey: How many years till States / cities replace their emergency vehicles such as those operated by police, firefighters, the ambulances, etc with fully electric vehicles with no ICE engine backups?

Bill Klehm: I think the adoption of essential services will follow the mass adoption in general. Until range and charging time can be addressed, I don’t think consumers will widely adopt and I don’t think municipalities will either. Politically there will be some states that take a different view of this and that will be a mistake.

* * * *

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Gabriel rode hard, fought hard and searched his soul year after year after he found himself in the Chopper homeland of Sturgis, South Dakota. He ultimately discovered a spot of land in Boulder Canyon, containing a modest cabin and a heated shop space to die for, but a double shot of Jack on the rocks at the Oasis lounge in downtown became his solace from his haunting blues.

He leaned on the bar, all 6’3” and 220 pounds with a massive full head of hair and a full beard. Whispering to the bartender, a worn out blonde who got dumped during the rally five years ago, he yearned for female companionship. He drank almost every evening and watched the holidays roll into town.

Gabriel recently started smoking cigars. He ate steak tips and French fries from the Loud American club down the empty street. Something clawed at him like a bad dream, a scolding mother or the fight, when he nearly killed a man in a blind rage. He felt like a soldier missing an arm.

“What’s eating at you,” Shirley said and knew when to pour him another drink.

“I don’t know,” Gabriel said. “I can’t figure it out.”

“Was it a girl?” Shirley muttered making change. “It usually is.”

“There’s been a few,” Gabriel said and took a swig of the Jack before the ice fully melted. “There was one.” His voice drifted off.

“What happened?” Shirley wasn’t half-bad looking as she shifted her large boobs under her taught bra straps and her succulent cleavage jiggled, but Gabriel wasn’t having any of this local broad. His soul searched but he didn’t understand the rule.

“She was the best,” Gabriel stumbled as if he tripped over a bottle of whiskey. “I couldn’t settle down, I had to ride.”

“Where?” Shirley asked but wasn’t waiting for an answer. A young cowboy pushed in the front door and made for the bar with a bag of sliced sausages churned with spices and peppers from a recently cleaned deer.

Gabriel looked at the Christmas lights flickering through the half empty tumbler of Jack Daniels. He looked up as Shirley’s mini-skirt bouncing down the rubber pads that insulated the concrete deck from her synthetic work flats. She still looked cute and her butt bubbled to the rhythm of the country song drifting from the flashy jute box, “Just give me a girl…” the singer said over and over.

Gabriel gathered up his gear and stepped out of the swinging doors into the Sturgis night. He looked up and down the empty fall street and made his way to the only friend he had, his rusting Softail with upsweeps and high-bars. Christmas cheer began to lighten the street with glistening ornaments and shimmering garlands.

Shortly before Thanksgiving, the weather was still dry and reached 60 degrees during the day. He wasn’t taking care of personal business and his bike looked grubby and grimy.

He worked in gold mine above Lead, and his pad was 3/4s the way up Boulder Canyon, but still held a Sturgis address. He turned off off Eddy Lane near where the famous photographer lived, Buck Lovell, before he took his life in Deadwood.

His home was a biker’s nirvana, warm, on a couple of acres in the Jack Pine strewn forest with a view of the rolling Black Hills around it. His shop, although beautifully insulated and drywalled with windows to the forest was unkept, held just a few active tools and an FXR manual. He also had a J&P catalog and a small work bench with one vice, still not bolted down. All his remaining tools and equipment were sequestered in crates and boxes. The unused shop was a biker’s dream, but no projects promised action on lifts even after three years.

The bastards turned off daylight savings time and darkness swept the canyon way too early. He crawled into bed with his socks on and fell asleep thinking about his conversation with Shirley and the girl who got away. She wasn’t the hottest broad on the block, but she worked with him, supported him and stood by him.

His depressed pattern started again the next morning when he awoke, made strong coffee and stumbled into the shower. He wound his way up to Lead where he operated an excavator linked to a massive drill bit and dug from 8 to 5, with an hour for lunch and usually an El Pollo burrito and a Coke. He checked out the cute Hispanic girl behind the counter with long flowing hair and dark mascara made up eyes. She wore a tight skirt cupping the ass he would like to grasp with his dirty hands.

She winked at him and he pulled on his long full beard and wondered what she saw in his dusty overalls and flannels. He piled rock until the angle of repose took over and started another pile. An engineer guided his mindless operation as he grabbed a rubber grip coated lever and started to drill another hole. Vibration and noise surrounded him.

At 5:00 he made his way to his Harley and started to think about the snowfall coming. He would need another way to get to work. By 5:30 he was slouched over the Oasis bar on his favorite rickety stool. Shirley rushed to his spot on the horseshoe bar.

“The usual?” She asked. Her smile bright and glistening. Her fingernails adorned with a copper metalflake coating glistened and sparkled as Christmas lights came to life. The soft rouge on her cheeks would warm any new customer.

“Yep,” Gabriel said. “Jack on the rocks.” As she walked away her mini-skirt revealed freshly shaved legs. The enhanced softness, the curves of her calves and the alluring motion of her thighs made him want to break his rule.

She returned with his tumbler briming; the amber shared only with the correct number of ice cubes. He took a sip and immediately felt pain relief.

“How are you feeling today?” Shirley asked concerned.

“It just doesn’t go away,” Gabriel said and lit a cigar, the brown tint pushing into his mustache.

“It will,” Shirley muttered and dashed off to another customer. She really wasn’t interested. She’d heard it all before.

Downtown Sturgis felt the Holiday spirit with the Harley-Davidson block fully adorned with crimson and sparkling white decorations. Gabriel wasn’t feeling it, when in walked a semi-tall broad wearing a business suit.

Gabriel’s compressed-leather upholstered barstool positioned him, so he could see the entrance on main and the entrance to the side street, Harley Avenue.

He faced the side street but couldn’t mistake the woman in the warm red overcoat with a mink collar. Her high-lighted brunette locks bounced perfectly on her shoulders. She immediately opened her coat to reveal soft white cleavage framed with a matching set of pearls perfectly enhanced with her dainty pearl and diamond earrings.

Like a Ferrari rolling into a biker bar parking lot, she appeared like a bastion of wealth and sex from her high-heals, the amber stockings, her perfectly contoured body, the brass buttons glimmering against her vest and the satin white unbuttoned blouse.

She threw open the overcoat and removed her cashmere scarf. Her brown eyes scanned the bar and suddenly contacted Gabriel. In the flash of a camera, he sat up straight, pulled at his dusty beard and yanked his long thick hair into a pony tail and tied it off.

With each carefully placed female step, his muscles twitched, the dust disappeared from his work boots and his buckle shinned for the first time in months. She moved around him and looked at the leather pad on the adjacent wooden barstool.

“May I?” She asked her voice as soft as an Al Green song.

“Of course,” he stammered.

Gabriel stood briskly and helped her remove her overcoat. He hung it on a brass hook on the massive wooden pole at the corner of the bar.

She smiled and moved over the barstool as if it was her golden thrown, her face as warm as a glowing candle. Thin and angular, shapely with her torso enhanced with magic boobs she sat.

Shirley approached glistening. Even she blushed slightly as she asked. “What can I get you?”

“Make it an old fashion,” she said and turned to Gabriel as if they were old friends. She smiled and said, “Can I get you anything?”

That’s when it happened. He looked into her soft brown eyes as she slipped a delicate hand over his thigh. Her eyebrows, perfectly tattooed, eyelashes enhanced, lips Botox augmented, luring, sparkling red lipstick aligned with those lips didn’t mean a fucking thing. She had her hand on his thigh.

Gabriel tingled everywhere. His heart pounded and he began to melt. He managed to sputter. “What’s your name?”

“Bethany,” she said, took a sip of her drink and licked her luscious lips. Then in walked two big road workers wearing their flourscent vests splattered with asphalt tar. They joked and hollered to Shirley for beers. The taller one turned toward the bar and froze.

Bethany’s sleek palm left Gabriel’s thigh abruptly. She stood, took a deep slug of her Old fashion and snatched her overcoat off the hook.

The big man sneered at her but didn’t say a word. Suddenly, Bethany foamed at the mouth in a psychotic rage and smeared her lipstick with the back of her hand. Gabriel stood, not knowing what to do or whom to do it to, but he suddenly understood the transformation he encountered and the thin veil of her allure.

Bethany stormed out the door. “Motherfucker,” was all she said and disappeared. The big man sat at the left corner and took a swallow of his beer and sighed. “She nearly destroyed my business and my family. I’m Fred,” he said and reached out for a friendly shake.

His partner rolled his eyes. “He’s right, she’s trouble.”

“She’s the hottest thing I ever had in bed, but then I knew my family came first,” Fred said and rubbed the stubble on his chin. “In fact, I need to finish this beer and head home. You’re lucky I came in.”

“Thanks, I think,” Gabriel said and took a slug of his glass of Jack.

“Do you have a family?” Fred asked. “My kids are more important than any roll in the hay.”

“No,” Gabriel said. “Well, I did have a supportive old lady who had two sons, but I didn’t stay.”

“Have you ever reached out?” Fred asked. “We all make mistakes.”

“I should have,” Gabriel said. “It’s been a while.”

“It’s never too late,” Fred said. “All the make-up and cologne in the world can’t hold a candle to the kids. We miss that too often. It’s all a rouse and cover-up for what lies beneath the big boobs and died hair.”

Fred and his partner finished their beers and hit the road home. Shirley returned to Gabriel. “Ready for another?”

“Not tonight,” Gabriel said reaching for his keys. “He was right. I need to make a call.”

Before he reached his bike the phone rang in Montana. “Hello,” Laurie said her voice as soft as floating clouds in the afternoon.

“Baby, it’s Gabriel,” He said. “I hope like hell you’re okay?”

There was a long hesitation and Gabriel weighed his options.

“I made the worst mistake of my life, leaving you and your sons,” Gabriel stammered.

If Gabriel could see her soft face, he would have seen the big tear form and roll down her soft cheek.

“Could we, would we have a shot again,” Gabriel stumbled.

“Who’s that on the phone,” a rough voice jarred the mood.

“Please,” was the only word she said and the line went dead.

For the first time in years, Gabriel stood upright straight and narrow. He looked at the dark sky, but the brilliant flickering stars reached out to him for action. He refueled at the edge of town and rode to his house like his pants were on fire.

He showered and suited up for a long ride from Sturgis to Billings, Montana. He’d find her. He hit the road out of Boulder Canyon and down the winding 85 to interstate 90 heading due West into Wyoming and Gillett his first gas stop. His FXR felt like a happy horse bolting somewhere meaningful. The mag wheels and tires warmed the cold pavement at 80 mph for the 347 mile run. He gassed up, but the low temps jarred his bones.

The truck stop had little to offer except Christmas decorations and Santa shit. He bought a red and white felt outfit, stuffed it with newspapers and hit the road.

He rode hard for another 100 or so miles through Buffalo and into Sheridan, where he stopped for gas, rags and polish. He paused for 20 and detailed his motorcycle for the first time in years.

He found a fluffy Santa hat, which he stuffed inside his gear and kept rolling. He remembered her smile, how hard she worked as a bookkeeper and her love for her two young men. As he entered Hardin Montana his phone pinged with her address and one word, “Hurry.”

He googled the directions, gassed up and hit the road. He pondered the wicked bitch who lured him away and what Laurie said as she let him go. “My boys come first.” That was just three years ago, and the bimbo was gone in a month. He continued to roam but never understood what he needed until now.

Until Fred’s words struck home, he didn’t realize the true code of the west: The kid’s come first. He pushed into the outskirts of Billings and found Paradise Mobil Home Park, a 30-year-old dilapidated home park full of drunks, dealers and the destitute. He slipped behind the tilting home beneath the flickering, half-lit, neon sign with a rusting Office sign above the door. He donned his full-on Santa gear and rolled down the lane looking for number 13.

As he approached a beer bottle broke a side window and a man’s voice hollered. “I hate your kids.” Gabriel grabbed an aluminum baseball bat from the tall weeds and knocked on the door.

“What the fuck,” the fat bastard shouted in a drunken slur as he yanked open the door. Santa stood in front of him at the bottom of the narrow metal steps wearing shades and holding an old, tarnished baseball bat.

“Merry Christmas, motherfucker,” Gabriel said, stepped forward and drove the bat into the man’s gut, yanked it back and drove it under his jaw. He stormed up the steps, grabbed the man by the hair and pulled him out of the motorhome and into the dirt at the bottom of the steps.

The drunk scramble to his feet, grabbed a steel tubing lawn chair and smacked Gabriel. He wasn’t finished yet. Equal in height, Gabriel staggered back. He had a gym in his log cabin basement, but it only gathered dust.

Gabriel lost his bat in the weeds as the over-weight drunk charged, tackling him. Fists flying Gabriel blocked most and rolled over onto the gasping man. They rolled again and jumped to their feet. He was over-weight and had 30 pounds on Gabriel. He reached behind his waist and out came a long bowie knife. He grinned and lashed out. The treacherous blade slit the white fluffy collar beneath Gabiel’s chin. Gab stepped back to assess his options and pushed his disheveled Santa hat back in place, when one of Kate’s sons reached out with the bat.

Gabriel grabbed it, side-stepped the knife and finished fatboy’s jaw. He jumped down and snatched the long bowie-knife and handed it to the kid. “Your first Christmas present.”

Laurie ran down the steps and into Gabriel’s arms. Nick and Ron, her son’s came to his side. Gabriel kissed Laurie deeply and turned to her boys.

“It’s Christmas time, goddammit,” Gabriel said. “We’ve got shit to do. Load up. Let’s hit the road.”

They didn’t hesitate. In short moments the boys and Laurie loaded her SUV, while Gabriel kept an eye on the ex in the weeds, nursing a broken jaw. Gabriel decorated the rails above the car with red and chromed garlands. “Who’s going to ride with me,” he said as the oldest son climbed into the SUV with his mom and Ron, the younger one headed for the FXR.

“Let’s ride to your Christmas present,” Gabriel. “It’s been waiting for you guys. I knew I bought that place for a reason…”

Yesterday, I roamed to the Arkansas Confederation of Clubs chili cookoff. I loaded my truck down with chili and pastries and cornbread and headed to the Longbranch Saloon in Little Rock. It has been the heart of Arkansas bikerdom since Moby Dick was a minnow…

Even though biker bars come and go, the Longbranch remains the staple, the home place where our memories are seeped into the darkened walls that are stained with photos and momentos of those who have joined the forever chapter for perhaps forty or fifty years now… a bar wallpapered with brothers and sisters who now forever preside over the clacking pool balls from a blurry photograph.

The Longbranch is the place where we always congregate to discuss the memories after our marryin’ and buryin’ and pool tournaments and of course, the chili cookoff, the night before Little Rock’s Toy Hill run… the largest toy run in the state.

So, I loaded up and went… the same as I did my very first Christmas as a brand new biker… twenty five years ago… and as my eyes adjusted to the dark smoky pool hall I saw that many of the same people were playing pool and standing at the bar, who were there over two decades ago the first time my eyes took in the room. Of course, I saw the ones who weren’t there anymore, too.

Even though my move from Iowa to Arkansas was several months ago, and even though I been back in my hometown in Arkansas since early summer… my soul didn’t truly feel the click of Dorothy’s heels until I stomped the dust off my riding boots, walked past the row of Harleys, and stood in the doorway of the LongBranch.

People I haven’t seen in seven years hugged me. I made my way through the building and the hugs and the familiar smells, remembering the times I walked through the door so many times, so many men, so many minutes, so many memories before, like the time I rode in wearing a fur coat and heels… the times I rode up with tears streaming down my face… the times I carried my drunk out the front door… the times in rain, pain and mud, the fear and the courage, the chill and the heat, the music and the laughter and the beer. I put my prodigal chili, my restitution for my absence for far too long, on the tables with the other entries in the chili contest. I would not win… I did not care… I was home.

I spent the day in nostalgic stupor. While I was sitting there watching people fooling around at a table full of patches with men who wore patches the first time I came to that old bar, 25 years ago.

I watched the VnVMC members walking around who were literally at the Dermott, Arkansas Crawdad festival in 1999…. When I rode up on a Road King with one of their friends, a man long gone, the old biker who taught me to ride and died in my arms. Those of his friends who are either lucky enough or cursed enough to still be livin’ were all there last night, the same old men who were around the campfire my very first ride on a motorcycle ever, one hot muggy crawfishy Arkansas night that changed my soul and the course of my life irrevocably forever.

I felt like Dorothy once more, reunited with the Tin Man and the scarecrow and the lion who lead her on a grand adventure like none she ever dreamed before… over a rainbow of colors, indeed! I watched the 1%ers and the church folks and the other clubs in the Confederation hug and smile and fellowship together.

Plus, there was this precious little lady bug of a girl selling tickets and being a little doll. I smiled as I watched her innocent smile, and figured to myself she was someone’s ol’ lady in a mom ‘n pop probably. She made a little crack like about she was being voluntold to sell tickets… She goes ‘if anyone knows how I got roped into this let me know cuz I don’t know how I got here.’ I laughed at her little joke, and I said ‘its ok baby girl. I been sitting at this table since my booboos were up where yours are, and I still don’t know how I got here either.

–The Wicked Bitch

What is the Washington Press Corps. It’s a question we’ve all asked ourselves at one time or another. As is the question so what’s actually the deal with Jill Biden’s tits. We see them packed together like pigs to the slaughter….. ok, I’m back to the Washington Press Corps, by the way. I’ve left Jill Biden’s tits. We’ve spent enough time on those butterbags of sadness that dispense the milk of despair.

Getting back on topic and kissing Jill Biden’s tits goodbye, we routinely see the members of the Washington Press Corps packed together like pigs to the slaughter: we see them galloping down hallways of the White House like Andalusians or whatever the fuck they are during the Running of the Bulls in Consuelo Yolanda Con Gleem Spain or wherever the fuck that even happens: we see them packed into their chairs in some hall closet in some White House version of a homeless encampment: they’re treated like subway train riders being herded by A.I. and they don’t mind it one bit.

And the reason for THAT is Washington Press Corps journalists have absolutely no pride, no integrity, no minimum standards for personal dignity, no sense of decorum, no conception of civility, a total absence of empathy regarding any life form though sometimes they will admit to a condescending nod to the existence of chemical compounds, such as C02 for example. And those journalists who make it onto the cattle-roster of “The Washington Press Corps” are there not because of talent – whatever that word could even mean regarding journalism – no, they’re not there because of any talent, they’re there because they display the journalistic-world minimum standards of worthless, inept, delusional child-like mentalities who are convinced their snotty, arrogant, petulant temper tantrums regarding other people not obeying the journalist’s decrees of proper behavior…are totally justified.

They’re in the Washington Press Corps because they believe that you, by not obeying the journalists’ decrees regarding the proper levels of whatever they are defining morality and holiness as this week…are deserving of contempt: your individuality renders you as sub human. They’re there in the Washington Press Corps because their superior level of sanctity demands that you – the citizenry – proclaim as valid the journalists’ proclaimed levels of “selflessness” and his relentlessly decreed levels of holiness requiring your worship of the journalists’ Caligula-like journalistic souls. They’re there – in the Washington Press Corps – because those journalists in particular actually HAVE that list of dignity-free and backbone-free and character-free attributes I just itemized and they have them in double-doses of worthless useless talentless whining, shit-ass carloads. The members of the Washington Press Corps have all these bottomfeeder, rancid, very shitty qualities, and not just in spades but in hearts and diamonds and clubs and jacks or better and in a crooked deck with you getting dealt no cards at all and still losing your shirt. And that’s why they’re in the Washington Press Corps: it’s the final step “up” into the talentless toilet of twat infection called “news writing.”

Naturally the only life form LOWER than a journalist – which would be a government official – recognizes these abysmal qualities. And if the journalist has these abysmal qualities in high enough quantities….he is, with a condescending nod, admitted to the ultimate snake pit of human failures known as The Washington Press Corps.

The Washington Press Corps is SUPPOSED to be referred to and honored as the watchdog of liberty: a body of stalwart soldiers of truth holding firm to the sacred oaths, virtues, and perfections of Journalism as iterated and carried forward by the mighty journalists of the past who have bravely and fearlessly fought against the juggernaut of evil that is the ever-present danger of governmental overreach into the rights and liberties of the American People.

However, to review, what the Washington Press Corps actually IS is a collection of “journalists” – or failed novelists – occupying, in the hierarchy of human complexity and aesthetic wonderment, approximately the same level and degree of nobility as plankton occupies in the society of stagnant water, contaminated runoff, and other festering deadly lagoons of deteriorating rot. In other words, backwaters and brackish runoff and mosquito-infested evaporating swamp lagoons of steaming decomposing filth have plankton, and the White House has the Washington Press Corps.

However, unlike plankton, the Washington Press Corps does not go about its random, drifting, sargasso-strewn existence in murmured and quiet, almost hushed, silence. No. Washington Press Corps personnel are forever in a turgid, rolling-boil agitation when assembled in the conference room or the press room or the cramped, homeless-encampment-like hallway or corridor or wherever it is that the “folding chairs for the imaginary elite” are unpacked and opened up and, basically, insultingly slammed into position for them in the White House Assembly Circus. Adding insult to haughty disdain, the folding chairs cavalierly arrayed for the Press Corps Cattle to wriggle their way into are not just orchestrated insults: Austin Theory of the WWE, when Roman Reigns reaches under the ring to haul out a folding chair and then climb with it into the ring to then slam Theory from behind with the chair, sending Theory face first into the canvas while then being mercilessly slammed over and over with the chair until Theory AND the chair are both turned into contorted grotesqueries of ruin……. this is benevolent courtesy and respect to Theory compared to the indignities the White House Staffers display with THEIR folding chairs to the chumps in the Washington Press Corps.

Returning to the plankton theme of Press Corps evolutionary levels: unlike ocean plankton, which is quiet….. terrestrial plankton, or the Washington Press Corps, when it is corralled into a narrow hallway and insultingly plopped into wooden chairs packed closer to each other than quarters in a roll of coins… terrestrial plankton – or the Washington Press Corps, – is not quiet like stagnant lagoon plankton. No: it bellows, shouts and calls-out noisily like seagulls hovering above the stern of a boat that’s chumming the waters with bucketloads of minced salmon skulls.

This raucous bellowing and outcry begins as soon as the “press-handler” announces that the bellowing may now begin. After a brief but preposterous outburst of noise the press-handler will nod or aim a forefinger at one of the pressed and condensed members of the hallway menagerie and a question will come forth from that person. The question will not only have no merit as a question it will have no bearing on anything that would have to do with the citizenry of this planet or any other planet, nor with anything that remotely could be considered of interest to anyone with a communication level higher than that of a kennel operator talking to a cocker spaniel.

Journalists are not aware that there even IS a citizenry. Journalists are only aware of their own personal failure at becoming famous. Like Jim Acosta having failed at becoming George Clooney. If they are aware of the citizenry at all it is a sullen, snarky awareness filled with bitterness that the citizenry does not swarm them with requests for autographs as they would Taylor Swift or Benjamin Franklin or Lucky Luciano. This longed-for goal – actual admiration – is forever denied the journalist. And by the time he gets to being in the Washington Press Corps he knows all hope is forever lost: those crappy chairs are going to be his final throne of authority and influence. Or in other words, a position lower and more battered than Austin Theory’s position face down on the mat being hammered by Roman Reign’s folding chair across his spine.

It gets worse for these sullen, petulant remora. Even though they are part of the “President”’s hand sifted and separated collection of found-to-be-suitable non-entities: they rarely get to “conference” with an actual President. What they usually get is a “spokesman.” And in the case of the present representative of the President, the jury is still out on what the fuck that apparition that is the present “press interventioner” even is. Which is amazing since the one before her pretty much broke the mold on – for one thing bad hair. She was some red headed Borg named Psaki-rhymes-with-buttcracky who apparently took styling tips from DEVO, had the personality of tree bark, and the disposition of a badger with Crones disease trying to shit razorwire out its ass and whose reddish rigor-mortised hair looked like it was colored by feral epileptic children using Crayolas.

She was tough to beat for sheer repugnance but Joe & Co. used the Find-A-Freak dredging machine which never fails them and unearthed an even more worthless candidate.

The Press-Handler at the moment is a chocolate-skinned, completely preposterous walking oblivion named something with a hyphen in it and who looks like she has a sea anemone on top of her head. It is a pretty good bet that what you would think would be the most-asked question from the compressed wall of hysteria-generating gooseherd of journalism-degree holders would be about her hair and when the fuck she is going to do something even remotely aesthetic with that squalid-looking reminiscence of Forensic Files bloodspatter. H.R.Giger has to be looking down – or looking up – from wherever he is and wondering if Miss Hyphenated has picked up the horror mantle from when he dropped it at his demise.

This question about whateverthefuck is going on on top of her empty head is not only NOT the most-asked inquiry of Miss Hyphenated….it’s never been asked even ONCE. You would THINK that it would be the number one question on every White House Press Hack’s agenda list. Her hair is a violation of every rule of Earthly Life Forms to the point where not only should it be number-one on every journalist’s agenda to investigate, it should even be on driving tests. It should just be a worldwide question that’s just out-there until the matter gets answered. It’s not a tough question. Here would be an example of it: “What in the FUCK is going on above your vapid brainless cranium, is that HAIR or is it some sort of virulent parasitic Fifth Horseman of the Apocalypse?” If it were to be asked it would not be met with cordial good-time jocularity from Miss Anemone. It would be met with virulent, hiss-filled, saliva spray so hot it would leave chemtrails of steam as the molten particles of spit spread out across the sea of bland, lifleless journalism majors and that PARTICULAR journalism major would be banned from White House Press Corps hallway clumping sessions forevermore. Small price to pay to get the question asked.

While we may never get any answers as to what the present Press Secretary actually IS, Journalists in the Washington Press Corps can to some extent be deciphered through simple observation such that some blanket statements can be made about them that are, at least until further notice, dead on target.

Washington Press Corps journalists are like cops in that 1: they’re stupid, and 2: they’re convinced they’re NOT stupid. They are in fact, like cops, convinced they are necessary and essential for an ordered and calm civilization to exist. 3: They are convinced that not only are they NOT stupid but that they have an insight and focus on proper human behavior that is hundreds if not thousands of years ahead of our time in wisdom and insight into the human predicament. In FACT journalists in general have not only declared themselves essential they have carved out an entire meaningless slogan for themselves that elevates them in equality to the three other meaningless slogans currently in place as Definers OF Humanity In Western Civilization: which, if you are a citizen of Europe, Canada, the USA, Australia, New Zealand and are NOT a Muslim – you – you reading this – are actually a part of. We are heading into full-blown delusional crazed psychotic if not sociopathic criminal mentality here so fasten your fucking seat belt. We are going to discuss The Fourth Estate.

The Fourth Estate is a category of Western “society” that was declared as a brand new “estate” that exists just as mightily and righteously and filled with holy and superhuman virtue and essentialness as the other three “estates” and this Fourth Estate was announced and declared real….by the people IN the “estate” who CREATED it: journalists. Or “news” hacks in other words. Talk about bold.

The first three estates were created by something called “philosophers.” Philosophers in Western Civilization are people who come up with sweeping scientific theories that they declare as fact without ever doing any actual research or testing on the declarations and which have nothing to do with science. Todays “climate scientists” are philosophers. Philosophers are basically freelance religious cultists.

In the world of “learning,” meaning what they tell you in “school”….. Western humanity is divided into 4 political categories, which in the world of “learning” are every bit as valid and meaningful and essential as any other list of categories you want to put people into. If not more so. They are, in fact, in the minds of the people IN these “estates,” holy and almost, if not actually, categories of divinity.

These then are the “Estates.” There used to be three of these but now there are four thanks to the menacing and unfortunate ability of journalists to not just take control of vocabulary but to rattle it into oblivion. Much as a coyote might rattle into oblivion the dying body of a ground squirrel via a jawclamp onto its body and a thrashing of its and the ground squirrel’s head into a cornucopia of g-forces that only the coyote is going to emerge from with all its connective tissue still intact.

These three original “estates,” NONE of which are ACTUALLY important to human progress, are, the Church or the First Estate, or the costumed self-proclaimed representatives of the deity-of-the-moment, in this case Jesus of Nazareth King of the Jews and likely soon to be replaced by Allah, and which costumed unemployables are the pontificators of morality: the Second Estate, Royalty, which is basically the warlord of the moment, who is in control of the slaves: or the Third Estate, or the citizenry as it is called, or the Common Folk. Meaning people not in celestial authority like the First Estate nor in government authority like the Second Estate but rather under both of these overlords, and these “common folk” are granted “estate” status, The Third Estate, even though they have about as much status as sheep on a hillside being calmly scrutinized by a distant wolfpack sitting down and quietly considering today’s best strategy to eat some of the sheep for dinner.

With the creation of the printing press which instantly threatened the existence of Royalty and what Ayn Rand correctly referred to as the Witch Doctors – or the clergy….. people who could Actually Compose Sentences became “the voice of the people” – a lie created by the new, self-proclaimed Fourth Estate and actually believed by the other three Estates as being factual.

These “voices of the people,” the elite of whom end up in the Washington Press Corps, use their mighty voice of the people to compose sentences like this one:

“On Nov third the President of Nigeria said that he would not consider a renewal of the Commonwealth Pac of 1858 unless there was a renegotiation of the intercontinental agronomy agreement with the President of the Netherlands under the condition of mutual coordination of the Anomaly Agreement of 1702. Given that the President of the US has repeatedly stated that reciprocation without adequate reciprocity from mutually involved non participants renders all agreements null is there any chance that the fallout from any adverse adumbrations of agreements could result in quid pro quo?”

Press Spokesman Anemone La Pierre Cumquat Adieu: “I have nothing on that at the moment.”

This sort of back and forth imbecilic retardation is supposed convince you – the Third Estate – that the Press – the FOURTH Estate – and the Royalty of the Presidency – the Second Estate – are engaged in a mutually productive oversight of the intricate and complex interaction between nations: rather than demonstrating your relentless gullibility in believing that government OR the press is actually anything.

The Press’s creation of themselves as a new and genuine Estate – capital E – is one of the great accomplishments of sheer utter chutzpah in the history of brazen self-righteous bullshit. The first three Estates – bullshit-enough for anyone I should think – have at least SOME credible, arguable, semi-reasonable, kind of understandable justification for applying to themselves the mighty and noble title of being an “Estate.” We are all in one or the other Estate and have accepted these three compartments of fucked-up humanity as being totally noble and worthwhile and necessary and just super fucking awesome. This all STARTED with the Catholic Church. This is not a criticism: my feeling is, if the “public” is that fucking gullible, fuck ‘em: pour it on.

Well, this Estate business got traction, and the “press” realizing that the printing press gave them power – being literate – why not use it and declare yourself, well, basically a branch of government AND religion AND the citizenry: a “Fourth” Estate, created by themselves, not to overthrow the other three Estates but to keep all three in line and having them willing to cooperate with the Fourth Estate’s actual agenda: keeping the other three estates frozen in fear that the Fourth Estate can eliminate the other Three at will via “bad press,” the eradication of conceptual thinking and the igniting of “public opinion.” Or instigating rioting, as it’s also called.

How this is being accomplished is an entire other article. And I don’t know about you but I’m already getting bored. I’m ready for a few tit pics. But before we go let’s give the White House Press Corps the abuse they deserve as a meaningless Estate.

The Third Estate likes being oblivious. It helps convince them that what the other three estates are doing to them is deserved. It’s called guilt. When was the last time you saw a preacher or a councilman or a journalist feel guilt? They don’t feel guilt. They inflict it onto you, the Third Estate.

Next time in American Government 101: The Supreme Court