A diatribe from my past...and a Tribute to the Queen

This was a response to an email, from another member of the BIMC who I was going back and forth on the BIMC listserve...maybe about two years ago. The biker chick who I was talking trash to, just became the May Queen of the South. This is an unknowing, to her, recognition and respect from one biker to another.

Well, if I didn't know better I'd think this was some
biker chick shaking off her Oxycontin at Winterfest.

Howver, since I do know better, sign me up for felt
burns, road rash, whip marks and HD Chain Lube. All
right, maybe not one of those.

Sign me up for the open road, though, my brothers and
sisters; sign me up for 220 grain Hydroshocks, greasy
breakfasts in Biggs, and all-night runs to beat the
sunrise. Sign me up for 120 db AC/DC at 3am, and
scraping my pegs on those tight sweepers by Otis down
the Van Duzer Corridor at 6am. Sign me up for
mindfucking, for mis/disinformation, for ritual, and
for those little roasted peanuts at the bottom of a
CrackerJack bag (What's up with the bag
thing...everybody knows CrackerJack belongs in a box)
from an AM/PM in Wilsonville just after the bars
close, and they're out of those God-Sent JoJO
potatoes.

That reminds me. I'm out of that damned chainlube.