Don’t Let Her Pretty Face Fool Ya, She Can Sniff Out A Whizzer Half A State Away When The Wind Is Right.

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Goldenrod

I live for the CABE
Don’t Let Her Pretty Face Fool Ya, She Can Sniff Out A Whizzer Half A State Away When The Wind Is Right.

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By Ray Spangler



She has rolled an obscene number of miles during her 22 years. Her birthing box can hold a litter of three motorbikes with five exhausted midwives in the cab, but her fold-down bed is too small for recreational use. With no more than ashtrays for urinary relief, she and I can plunge into the wilderness with week-old (gas station) donuts, an ax and a handful of salt.

This bloated, Caucasian transport has rescued seventy dead motorbike cadavers, each reeking of solidified body fluids. Most are in the Land Of Lincoln, where all his statues are threatened with removal. A few fiesty Whizzers are restlessly prancing in a Wisconsin stable where the state model is, “We’re right here, next to leaky Minnesota, and we haven’t peed on all of our trees, yet”. Wisconsin guys are tip-top. They’re never afraid of rust or a tool kit. Hide half of your beer.

You don’t see a front license plate on her bumper because she hit a Bambi and got a paper-thin Chinese replacement that is too frail to hold a plate bracket. The chrome is like tinfoil with no medal underneath but the damn thing was made to protect a heavy-duty hauler. Most of the time she sits, shedding driveway-rust, while lowering property values, but when a two-wheeled stray needs resquing, her iron spirt is aroused and there is no stopping Lazarus’s Chariot from entering the fray.

It seems like I have been slightly aroused (chatting about beds, Whizzers and such) so I’ll hit the post thread button and yell for my mate, Slinky.
 
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