Deal with it.
a true cafe racer….daddy digs.
Jesus, man. Just stumbled across your blog and looks like a good read–but that’s not why I’m writing. I’m writing about how I found your blog–I was pissing in this Iowa truckstop bathroom when this little dwarf-looking dude waddles up to the urinal next to me, muttering “fuck off…fucking savages” and CLANG, rests this meter-long machete on the porcelain while he wrestles this tremendous schlong from his camo pants and proceeds to piss for about ten minutes, like a goddamn horse. It’s not right, but I can’t help but peek–and then I see them: a big .44 revolver on his waist and scabby letters cut into his forearm, spelling the address to this blog. Now, I’m a big tough guy, but I ran for it, man, and hid until long after he’d kicked open his Harley and roared off west on Interstate 80. Run, man. Run now.
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