Roscoe Stuff

The Near Demise of “Billy the Dog”

2006-06-13T20:44:00.000-04:00

Most small towns are the same, quiet and stress free until some “Move Inner” stirs up a mess. You know the place. The town dog belongs to the kid down the street but it never stays home. Found sleeping on any porch, everybody feeds it. The Advance town dog is called “Billy the Dog”, not to be confused with “Regular Billy” or “Bill Elliott”. About twelve miles away, the Hoosier Cushman Club hosted the National Cushman Club of America meet in Lebanon, Indiana, at the Boone County 4H Fair Grounds. So big deal, why do Cushmans have anything to do with stray dogs? Follow my babble and I’ll explain.

Hundreds of bikers converge on a small town and you start thinking about the historic “Life” Magazine photograph of the disheveled biker posed with beer bottles scattered around and citizens bullied by Marlon Brando. Well, this Cushman bunch is a different breed of “Wild One”. Rather than shake your fist at nairdowells, a raised hand greets these scooter hooligans with a smile and a wave. Eagles, Step-Thru(s), ‘Meter Reader” Trikes and the occasional golf cart terrorized Lebanon streets with sputters, pops and laughs. Show bikes, daily rides, flame painted customs with V-twin engines, all converge in a happy union.

The planned activities included a tour of the famed Indianapolis Motor Speedway to see the two and one-half mile oval. Early they’d gather. Cushheads young and old readied their machines for the migration to the 500 Mile Race Track. A southeastward shot down U.S. 52 would deliver them there in a few minutes but they pursued adventure. The herd turned west across the glacial plain to Dover, taking the scenic route and adding twenty-five miles to a real Ride.

A thundering vision approached from the north. The animals noticed it first. Birds flushed from the trees. Rabbits scampered to the bushes. Billy the Dog awoke from his nap confused; tilted his head and lifted an ear to investigate. A cacophony bore down on tranquility. By now, humans sensing the vibration left their homes and shops and gathered at the curb to watch the coolest motorcade to ever hit Advance. Flags fluttered. Scooter horns tooted. Children waved, jumped up and down, and clapped with delight. Bike after bike went by, two wide at thirty miles an hour with no end on the horizon.

I don’t know why dogs do what they do. They circle three times before the lie down. They like playing with roadkill. They do all kinds of weird things. And, for some reason, during that multi-mile long convoy of Cushmans, Billy the Dog had to cross the road! He paced side to side. He sat down and then stood. He barked, whined and yelped. He’d dart, chicken and return to the curb. Calamity was inevitable. Town’s people feared the worst. . . A huge scooter pile-up and Doggycide in front of the children. OH, THE HUMANITY! (and psychiatry bills). People tried to wave the bikers to slow down but they replied with a thumbs-up and a tooting at unknown danger.

Then it happened. . . The Miracle, the Las Vegas Luck. One keen rider saw Billy the Dog. He raised his hand and slowed. In complete control, hundreds of machines coasted to a stop letting the poor mutt cross. Why? So he could sit on the other side. Then seeing all pedestrians were safely out of the way, he gave the “GO” sign. Up and away they sputtered, popped and laughed, tooting and scooting. Heroes all.

Location: New York.

2006-02-18T21:14:00.000-05:00

We find ourselves in eastern New York during one of the worst winter storms on record. The storm dumped more than 24 in. of snow so far. We visit a super secret skunk works in order to trick every horsepower out of the Rupp. We cannot divulge every detail however the finished product will undoubtedly devour methanol like there is no tomorrow. We decide to camp overnight in a quiet grove somewhere near Morristown. Every weathercast predicts a tough night and Tater seems uneasy.

Day 0.
It struck with a vengeance and shook the camper like a paint mixer. The nearby trees would offer some protection as long as they did not break and crush us like bug. No one could sleep so we spent the night playing cards. As dawn broke a white whirlwind enveloped us. Freak Show attempted exit only to find that drifting snow had us pinned in the camper with out escape. We were 200 yards from the road with our tracks now buried under waist deep snow. We had no choice but to wait it out.

Day 1.
Using a piece of plywood with some creative vice-gripping to the steering wheel, I’ve fashioned a handy worktop / writing surface upon which I’ll chronicle this stay in our snowy prison. For a short time the storm subsided and we were able to get through the sunroof, align the satellite dish and survey our situation. A flick of the windshield wiper switch revealed that we were stuck in an Arctic vice. We could see the town's water tower yet we knew no one could find us. We spend the day generally trying to keep ourselves occupied. Luckily, we have plenty to eat and if we can keep the dish clean, will have enough television channels to keep us entertained.

Day 2.
I DON’T CARE HOW MANY DAMN BOTTLES OF BEER ARE ON THE WALL!!!! Freak Show decided that it will be days before anyone finds us, so why get dressed. I station at the driver's chair and watch him (a hairy pear wearing a rubber band) pace the camper, ranting about government restrictions on carnival operators. Tater nests in the cupboard above the refrigerator.

Day 3.
Toe nail clipping in the eye. Boil the pliers. . . . The onslaught of albino brain chiggers subsides for now. I fear reinforcements gather in the west. Attack at nightfall seems eminent. Three days now, besieged in this icy belch from the belly of hell. I've fashioned aluminum toboggan hats and mittens for my faithful followers and myself, our shield from the white hoards. We survive on boiled bologna and the grace of a higher being.

Day 4.
More snow and Chewed life-savor wine. Booze and beer are gone. Freak Show watches the Discovery Channel and learns that chewed Mantioc root, when fermented, can produce an alcoholic beverage. Desperate, a concoction of crushed car seat candy, Tang, and a splash of Tabasco is spat into a zip lock bag and placed in the toolbox. By Nature’s grace you’ll find me mummified with a death grip on this steering wheel. My worst fear is being discovered frozen, spooned to a chimpanzee and a tattooed slob in a futile attempt at heat conservation.

Day 5.
Dawn broke calmly and I decided I had to get out before something bad happened to Tater and Freak. Risking frostbite, I fashioned snowshoes from two seat cushions and duct tape. Through the sunroof and over the side, first contact was every bit as exciting as Neil Armstrong's giant leap for mankind. By luck, when I reached the road I encountered a farmer driving a huge tractor. He offered a ride and asked if I was by myself. I thought, "No, it’s just me". Instead, I answered honestly and in short time, the farmer plowed his way to the camper and towed us to civilization.

A life trial can certainly put things in perspective. You discover personal strengths and weaknesses. You adjust and exercise patience. Rather than act on anger consider that more times than not, the cops will find the body. I have personally mapped out a new life plan. When I win the lottery, I'm going to buy one of those giant heads from Easter Island.

Location: Arkansas

2006-01-21T20:26:00.000-05:00

Stood still on a highway. I saw a woman by the side of the road with a face that I knew like my own, reflected in my window. Well she walked up to my quarter light and she bent down real slow. A fearful pressure paralyzed me in my shadow. She said, "Son, what are you doing here... My fear for you has turned me in my grave." I said "Mama I come to the valley of the rich... Myself to sell." She said, "Son, this is the road to Hell. " - Chris Rea

The road with a chimpanzee and a 300-pound carnival ride operator, conversation of an intellectual nature expired 400 miles earlier. Tater shakes the TV Guide and points to Larry King who will interview Janet Reno. Freak Show's response is enthusiastically oppositional. The Man Show will host a Wet T-shirt contest. When we bivouac for the night and align the satellite dish, I'll cast the deciding vote. Prey we spy Janet Reno in a wet T-shirt contest.

Strange and amazing places like Bald Knob, Beaver, Dogpatch and Toad Suck are called home in Arkansas and thrill my traveling companions. The two-story out house at the Booger Hollow Trading Post, along Scenic 7 Byway, in Dover creates quite a splash. (Rivaled by Bell Plaine, Minnesota; Gays, Illinois; and Phelps, NY all home to the world's one and only.) At Fouke/ Texarkana, you hear the tail of the Boggy Creek Monster. My pilgrimage follows Robert Johnson, master of the blues. Written in song and legend, we make for the junction of 49 & 61 near Helena. "It is the Crossroads to Eternity." accounts Willie Coffee, Johnson's life long friend.

Night fell and time to eat. To make up for the TV show commotion, Freak Show wanted to treat us to dinner. He knew of a great truck stop. We topped a hill in the full moon light to come upon the Moldy Dumpster Slop & Fuel. On a good day it could be described as a roach house - a shack with a half operational neon sign buzzing and popping away in the parking lot. Freak Show rubbed his hands together and assured us that it would be great. As we entered the fly covered screen door, Freak was welcomed with hardy handshakes and pats on the back. "Come on in, we're monkey friendly!." Show commented on how the area had changed. They replied, "When they closed down the slaughterhouse, the neighborhood turned to crap."

After a nice visit and a Chili Bucket with Mushrooms, it was time to hit the road. Show offered to take over my driving duties.

It might have been 20 minutes later. Who knows? An odor wretched from the belly of Hell enveloped the camper in a green/yellow mist. My vision blurred as the caravan shook violently. I yelled to our pilot, "Be careful! You're going off the road!" He responded, "Which side!" Within the cyclone, I felt like I would purge my gut. We stopped and as I extricated myself from under the dashboard, I looked at Freak Show. His eyes blazed ruby red. His beard moved, entwined by reptiles. In a voice unheard before he growled, "Your soul to become the best rider of all."

I'll pass. I'll shoot for mediocrity and take my chances. Besides that, the chili was lousy. Quit screwing around!" The demon looked past me to the chimp. "How about you?" Tater convulsed.A horrific screech burst forth, the wind swirled. . . silence.

Its time to go.

2006-01-15T22:17:00.000-05:00

At 8:10 PM EST US, January 15, 2006 I determined that my blog name, Roscoe, was used to comment maliciously on other blog sites. In recent weeks I’ve seen many bloggers attacked unfairly or maligned for apparent sport; a chance one takes when you present yourself to the public. I extend my apologies to anyone harmed.

My intent with Roscoe Stuff was, for fun, to re-post stories of a character’s adventures, originally written for a website which in part promoted motorcycle safety to kids. Anonymous posters then inferred that this blog was part of the My Mule blog. It is not. Josh is a long time friend who encouraged me to start writing again.

For now, to all who were encouraging, Thank you.

Location: Observation

2006-01-01T15:44:00.000-05:00

The wheels of justice roll slowly and the alignment is off. Freak Show's plea-bargaining abilities did not rise to my expectations. The jailhouse shrink report carried more weight than I anticipated. One condition to my release was to participate in a court-ordered observation period of 72 hours. Afterwards, I would spend a minimum of two weeks in group therapy at the city's finest Nut-bin. I would find my inner feelings looking at inkblots and answering questions like "Aren't you afraid to touch doorknobs?" I'd seen it before. In my family, interventions happen at Christmas when everybody gathers to tell you how you’re screwing up . . . Good times.

It is uncomfortable learning your "doctor" is straight out of school. Doc tripped over his feet fumbling with a clipboard. He described the battery of tests I would take in the next three days and quipped, "I hope you stick around. We hate to tell the court that you were not cooperative." I replied that I was not Harvey Mushman and this was not "The Great Escape ". The young fellow scribbled notes and asked, "Who is Harvey Mushman?" Sensing this was test number one I told Doc that racing motorcycles was more than a gimmick to Steve McQueen. He was a serious motorcycle racer who often registered as Mushman because he did not want to draw attention to himself. With a bewildered look and a shoulder shrug, my newly graduated, smart as a whip, wet behind the ears Doctor asked, "Who is Steve McQueen?" . . . I was in trouble.

Things were not going well. The staff would congregate at my door and whisper. Internal resentment festered - that monkey put me here. One nurse understood my frustration and extended an understanding hand. Her advice . . ."Don't fight the medication." Then I remembered a quote by William Jefferson Clinton . . . "If you find yourself in a big hole, stop digging." I had to agree with the hippie. I kept my stories quiet, took their tests, and told them what they wanted to hear. I had fun the next couple of days finger painting but I kind of missed Tater, Leelee and our adventures. Visiting day arrived. Freak and Tater showed, bringing gifts. Doc saw the bonafied monkey and released me to Gen-Pop, a whole new world and a whole bunch of new friends. With a bare-assed hospital gown and a restored sense of freedom, I was ready for Gen-Pop.

The journey of 1000 miles begins with a single step. . . In my case, twelve steps and a pair of pants. Twelve step programmers are natural moochers. Most anonymous support groups take the alcoholic steps, remove the word alcohol, and insert the habit necessary. Alcoholics, Sexaholics, Gamblers, Food Addicts, and Cocaine users jump in. There is a support group for you. In Gen-Pop, the first thing you do is sign up for the Substance Abusers Softball League. It is supposed to introduce you to the rest of the gang and their problems. No bats or ball, just a bunch of crazies standing in the yard screaming "Hey Batter, Swing!" Al Unser said Robert Downey was last year's MVP. Not THE Al Unser, this Al was a 6 ft. Jamaican and his racecar was, in fact, an old office chair. Man, could he hot lap the bases.

Time flies when you are on behavioral modifiers. During my stay I wondered how to make twelve steps work. "1.We admitted we were powerless over alcohol-that our lives had become unmanageable." Okay, I admit I am powerless over monkeys -that our lives had become unmanageable. "10.Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.". I have three motorcycles and a monkey. I was wrong about the monkey. The rest of the steps rely on God for help. While God might have made both man and monkey, history shows you don't mix monkeys with religion. It didn't work for Darwin.

Location: Indianapolis

2005-12-28T20:13:00.000-05:00

A life on the road gets complicated at times. I tell this so others may learn from my mistakes. The short version goes a cavalry of emergency equipment arrives, cop draws gun, and Roscoe goes to jail.

A more detailed version begins as we found ourselves accommodated by a family friend in the lavish parking area of a famous racetrack. Leelee and I enjoy our morning, the calm after the storm in a typical crisp day. Tater sulks in the camper shower / toilet concluding a 48 minute fit. He's angry because we told him we would not attend the Dallas-Fort Worth Primate Expo and Monkeyrama. Our serenity brakes as we hear sirens and see familiar blue and red flashing lights approach. Looking to make a good impression, I sprang from my chair and grabbed my jacket. An officer exited his prowler and asked " Mister, are you wearing a KTM jacket?" I smiled and puffed my chest expecting to hear "You a bike rider? Me too! ". . . "YOU'RE UNDER ARREST! We've received a screaming 911 call and GPSed a signal to this location. Have you been abusing the lady?" As the cop car door closed, Tater waved the cell phone and Leelee promised to call a lawyer and vowed to remain ever true, as long as it takes.

The People at the police station seemed to be a little easier to get along with than the arresting officer. I asked the lady taking fingerprints who the hard nose was. She replied "He's Patrolman B. V. Davidson. The inmates call him Sheriff Skivvies". The guy hates bikers. When his wife ran off, she took his bike and hooked up with a lady junkyard dealer. (Ouch! That sounds familiar, kinda.) They played the 911 tape and it sounded pretty bad. " If you don't quiet down, you're gonna get smacked ". Then you hear unexplainable screams.

They took me to the cell. It was a large, bench lined, room filled with guys in coveralls. The real jumpy small guy sat down next to me and began talking. Everybody has a story in prison. He said "One day you're swiping golf carts, just funnin'. The next day you're somebody's man-girlfriend ". I told him about Tater throwing the fit over his monkey jamboree and poop fling. I suggested to the guy that using "finger quotes" when he said 'man-girlfriend' might get him in trouble. You hit rock bottom when the littlest guy in prison tells you that you are screwed. At this point the biggest guy in the cell walked over and I thought here we go. . . . But all he said was " monkeys are funny. " I started telling stories about monkeys and motorcycles. I told stories of our adventures meeting famous people like Boyd Sivle, Ted Nugent, Vince & Linda McMahon. The inmates gathered, some sitting cross-legged encircling the floor. I told stories of Amish go-go barns, boat wrecks, Weiner Mobiles, and Mount Rushmore. The guards amassed and listen attentively. I told legends of Edsel collections, explosive diarrhea, talking badgers, and the Cushman Scooter boys. I even started an open debate; Steven Hawking v Christopher Reeves in a fight. . . does anybody win? One guy began writing notes on his clipboard. It all sounded like a terrific summer flashback TV show but before I knew it, it was time to go to court.

At the arraignment the judge looked over her glasses and asked if I was a violent man or a drinker. Behind me, Freak Show Roy, dressed in shorts, sandals and a tank top, objected from the gallery and proclaimed himself my legal counsel. He and the judge argued at the sidebar for a least 10 minutes and he returned. " Roscoe, there are no witnesses. Leelee couldn't wait for you to get out of jail and left for Barstow to follow her show business dream. . If you tell the judge about Tater, she’ll put you in the nut house. The jailhouse psychiatrist says you’re delusional. Tell them you need rehab and you’ll do two weeks max. You’re out of here”…

“Judge, the Tequila and Tang has a grip on me. I need help.”

Rehab later. . .

Location: Christmas

2005-12-20T08:08:00.000-05:00

Come on, stop crying.

It can tear your hart out when you realize you aren’t needed - He can manage on his own. This was not his world. He should be among his own kind. He had become increasingly independent and at times aggressive. He could feed himself. He foraged when he ventured into the night, away from the camper. His solo trips grew longer in duration. I didn’t know what to do. Leelee could make him laugh with a smooch on the cheek and a tickle. My ”Got your nose” earned only a look of disdain and he would not eat his favorite dinner - mashed potatoes and Snicker bars.

Go! . . . Go now; you can’t stay here, crap flinger!

300 pounds of tattooed flab scampered through the turn-style to The Two Headed Abominable Snow Goat. We set Freak Show Roy loose in the carnival, singing a teary-eyed “Born Free”.

Before that nasty late-afternoon scene, he hit me up for $50. He said his mission was to finish Christmas shopping and visit some friends. Tater and I set out on a reconnaissance mission of our own. We were on the trail of a classic set of wheels. I wasn't certain how this deal would work out. I hoped this could be a present for the whole gang, a project that we could all enjoy. Just in case, I did have a Plan B stashed in the back of the camper.

Miles clipped by and the carnival glow changed to houses festooned with holiday lights in the snowy crisp evening. The sky flushed with wisps of blue, green, yellow and red, probably reflection from the clouds. I did not like looking at the bike after dark but, if you're going to take advantage of a sweet deal like a 1972 Rupp Roadster you have to strike like a commando. We followed a creek across the bridge and turned into the first driveway. Our headlights panned the property revealing several motorcycles half-buried in a circular pattern in front of the house. We knocked on the door and encountered a shorthaired fellow with thick glasses. I apologized for showing up late and he took us to the garage, sans coat. I quizzed him about the yard art and he explained that he watched a program about Stone Hinge on the Discovery Channel and became a born again artist and Druid.

You have seen this guy before. He is the one who could drive to school during the second semester of the eighth grade. You know the guy who, after watching eight Bruce Lee movies, made his own “nunchucks” from two bits of broomstick and a short length of dog chain. Then he beat the crap out of himself learning home styled martial arts. Yeah, he had the Rupp for sale, but it wasn't exactly stock. He said, "Runned it out of oil and blowed it up. Don't worry though, she's better than new because he swapped engines with an old rode-e-tiller”. There is a fine line between genius and insanity. This guy's line must be drawn with peanut butter.

I wasn't concerned about a stock engine because I had plans to "pep it up" and after strategic barter we cut a deal. He told us a Shriner owned the Rupp. He said they would parade the bikes and keep them in their hotel rooms for safekeeping. I envisioned a bunch of booze happy revelers, in fez and boxer shorts, running the gauntlet and setting hallway speed records. It had the Shriner's crest on the rear fender and some paperwork. It looked legal.

As Tater and I drove back to town we noticed the sky still aglow. We arrived at the now dark carnival to find Freak Show struggling on an icy sidewalk. Try herding a giant, drunk, boneless chicken into a motor home while it screams 'Jingle Bells'. " I asked what happened to him and he broke into tears. He blubbered something about a bearded lady lap dance, winning at poker and Brittany Spears T-shirts for everybody. He lamented about 'Good will towards men' and going to the nudie bar instead of Christmas shopping. It was best to distract him but there was no way that he was going to understand the new purchase of the mighty Rupp. I had to implement ' Plan B '. I foraged through a few packages and presented Freak Show and Tater with brand new, crisp orange and blue KTM T-shirts. The looks on their faces would give anyone the 'Warm and Fuzzies'. Freak Show exclaimed, "We can be shirt buddy's just like I wanted! "

Later, the guy on the radio said that the glow in the sky was the Aurora Borealis, only to be seen in this part of the world about every 100 years. I watched the light show and reflected upon our purchase. I imagined the fun we would have. Tater sat quietly drawing on the frosty window. Freak Show, tucked away in his bunk, clutched his new T-shirt and between snores would mumble 'shirt buddy's'. . .

Location: Central Florida II

2005-12-16T20:09:00.001-05:00

Tater and I awaited the arrival of Leelee and Freak Show Roy. Along the way, Freak Show watched a documentary called " Mule Skinner Blues " and was compelled to track down a lady named Annabelle Lea Usher. Ms. Usher was a costume designer and had acted in a short movie called "Turnabout is Fair Play". She told the story of her pit bull terrier which she called companion for eight years. She found the beast abused, burned by cigarettes, missing a fang tooth, and addicted to cocaine. She rehabilitated the animal by feeding it a beer every day for a month to get it over the shakes. The dog lived a happy life but when it died, she couldn't bear to bury it nor did she have the money to have it taxidermied. She wrapped it in a blanket and laid the canine to its final rest in her chest freezer. Star struck, Freak Show found it imperative that he and I make our way to Jacksonville. He thought she had a kind face and a great story. Personally, I thought she had a nice freezer.

Following the race car debacle, I planned to give Freak an ear full but decided to let it ride for a while when I found out that Leelee and he had been fighting since a Chattanooga crematorium tour. I will tell you that the Cushman scooter boys are having a blast. The bikes were very comfortable at speeds up to 55 mi. an hour. Above that, the short wheelbases grow a little unstable. Their first time runs are impressively successful. Tater liked the looks of the bikes so much that he took a picture with his camera.

Later we headed down the state to Gibsonton, a famous side show wintering town. Freak Show wanted to visit a few people that he knew. Along the way, we've meandered the state intentionally avoiding the Interstate. Highlights included Christmas, home of the largest gator ever built; Kissimmee, home of the second largest gator ever built; Orlando's Graceland replica; Bongoland in Port Orange was closed; St. Augustine, world's largest ball of barbed wire; Tarpon Springs chimp farm was closed but the Sponge-a-rama . . .WOW! Tater had a great time. He swam with manatees and insisted upon wearing scuba flippers on his hands and feet. Freak Show took his picture but it didn't turn out. Mostly, the roads just look like oranges, oranges, oranges, gator, oranges, armadillo, oranges, dead armadillo (maybe) .

We looped the state, having fun. Driving north on the Atlantic side, we passed Kennedy Space Center. Tater grew restless. We're about to find a Vet when Freak Show suggested that he might be a little home sick. It seems Tater grew up in the area.

Location: Central Florida

2005-12-08T09:12:00.000-05:00

Earnhardt pulled a stuffed monkey from his driving uniform and slammed it down. "I'm here, and I've got that damned monkey off my back!" he proclaimed." That was part of Dale Earnhardt's victory speech after winning the 1998 Daytona 500. When Indiana native Andy Hillenburg substituted for Ricky Rudd at the 2002 Daytona test session, Yates said. "It's not like a place where you need great driver feedback, (even though) Andy can do that and do a great job for us. I'm not saying he's just a monkey or a steering wheel holder, by any means." Tim Flock, the son of a daredevil, sometimes drove with a monkey as his co-pilot.... Flock raced eight times with his pet monkey, "Jocko Flocko," in the co-pilot seat. But the monkey broke free during a 1953 race at Raleigh, North Carolina, and grabbed Tim by the neck, holding on for dear life. Flock had to make an extra pit stop to de-monkey his car, which ended up costing him the race. (NASCAR.com) NASCAR roots reach deep in monkey tradition. With tradition in mind, I was certain that a trip to Daytona was necessary.

A few logistical problems had to be figured in order to make the whole thing work. Leelee dropped us at Joe Foss Field in Sioux Falls. She would drive the camper south through Indiana to pick up Freak Show Roy and proceed to the holy land of stock car racing. Freak Show knew a couple of guys who had a hot car and needed a driver. My first obstacle would be flying with Tater. With the unfortunate global situation we find ourselves in, I counted on security being tight. I checked my bags and proceeded through the metal detector. Upon exit, I was thrown against the wall and surrounded by three heavily armed military types. "What the hell you carryin' in that bag!" I turned and realized what started the commotion. My soft sider screamed and tumbled off the conveyor as wide-eyed security workers viewed the x-ray monitor revealing an ape-ish skeleton. It was then I figured we were in trouble. I unzipped the bag and Tater exited holding my KTM jacket as a security blanket. "You a bike rider?... We are too!" ... After a few minutes of negotiation it was decided that we could fly to Florida but I would have to keep the monkey under control and buy him a ticket.

Six hours later, they said to look for a Cuban guy holding a sign for us. I figured that we would be riding in style but an un-muffled Town-car, needing shocks, bounced us to our destination. I remember my dad telling me that if you opened the suicide doors on a 64 at speed, you'd get sucked out and run over by a concrete truck. Ricardo chattered with Tater while I enjoyed the sun and orange groves of eastern Florida, the smell of oil leaky valve covers filled the air. Aided by three semesters of high-school Spanish, I surmised he spoke of President Kennedy and the Bay of Pigs and that he was shot in a car just like this one. We arrived, in short order, at the garage complex of Frankie "Firebug" Roberts, a long time friend of Freak Show. Show would spend his winters in Florida and higher Frankie to repair carnie rides. I wanted to see the racecar. I envisioned myself speeding down the front stretch as Tater waived to the delight of the crowd. We rounded a deteriorated Tilt-A-Whirl and I stopped dead in my tracks. Before us sat a 97 T-bird covered with wood grained contact paper that you might buy to cover a kitchen cabinet. Some group called Gator Alley Pulp Mill & Stump Grinding sponsored it. Apparently the guys cashed in their alligator circus business.

When Freak Show gets here, we're gonna talk. I still think Tater and I would make a great team, one meant for the history books. I caught a story on TV where several drivers were asked a Barbara Walters type question. "If you were in animal what kind of animal would you be?" Answers varied from the speedy Cheetah, Leopard and Gazelle to Tony Stewart's reply of "a tiger of course". With the wisdom of an old timer Jimmie Johnson proclaimed, "I'd be a monkey!". Be proud, be fast, Be Monkey.

Location: Sturgis bound

2005-11-22T18:12:00.000-05:00

NEVER VOLUNTEER FOR ANYTHING!...Two reasons: 1) Prostate 2) Warmer... Find out why at the Museum of Questionable Medical Devices in Minneapolis. Try on a phrenology machine for size and experiment with other devices of quackery. Minnesota competes with Wisconsin for "world's largest everything" but here you enter true Paul Bunyan country. Darwin, MN boasts the world's largest ball of twine measuring 12 ft. in diameter and weighing 17,400 lbs. (You don't see the world's largest ball of twine just any where.) Eveleth prides itself owning a 107 ft. hockey stick with a 700 lb. puck. Blue Earth harbors the Jolly Green Giant and is known as the birthplace of the ice-cream sandwich. Brainerd, of course is the birthplace of Paul Bunyan but before you leave the state, stop at the Benson Bowler on Minnesota Avenue for some of the world's best curly fries and knock down a few pins. It’s a "Bowltel" where you can throw a few strikes and rent a room for that nap between frames.

We made it to Mount Rushmore. We had to pick up the pace because we are being detoured to southern climates. We encountered a warm front, which brought welcome temperatures in the 40's. It was not warm enough to melt the ice and snow from the heads of our esteemed political leaders. All shared a bad case of psoriases and president Lincoln sported a nasty "Nose Klingon" 60 ft. tall. Leelee and I appreciated the beauty of the snow laidened tree scape when we heard a child giggle and exclaim, " President Lincoln's mole is climbing his snotcycle!" Leelee shrieked, sprinted, and body checked the youngster away from his "pay 25 cents and look through the big binoculars" on a post. She turned and gave me one of those "YOU forgot to lock the camper and YOUR monkey is defacing a national monument AGAIN" looks.

So how do you pull a monkey out of the president's nose? Well, do or do not follow or modify these instructions if you ever get into the same jamb. First, panic a few minutes. Second, go to the ranger station and speak with the friendlies. Ranger Rob was the gung-ho, by the book, type while his partner Ranger Andi (with an "i") was more laid-back, level Dead Headed, "No problem, it happens. Neat KTM jackets. You guys bike riders? Me too! " Ranger Rob scrambled for his climbing gear, looking for peetons, carbeeners, ice axes, static lines and other stuff and I went back to the camper for my fish finder. (Trusting O'l Lucas' story of treasure, I earlier taped it to a broom handle and with a few coat hangers, I fashioned a metal detector.) Andi grabbed her keys and left with Leelee.

An hour and a half later, Ranger Rob kicked ice and barked orders at me. Pucker factors escalated with each step higher. Mother Earth lay a distant 60 ft. below. I grew tired lugging my fish/metal detector and the 12V battery needed to power it. The excitement, this time I was the cavalry of emergency equipment. After what seemed like hours, we pinnacled the nasal drip to find Andi, Leelee and Tater sitting in Old Abe's left nostril, looking adnnoyed. "What the... How the heck d'you get here so fast?" Andi replied "We just came up the maintenance path on the golf cart. Bobby can make things difficult." I asked her if she knew of the treasure legend. She replied, "We use the inside of Lincoln's head for storage. There's nothing here but a bunch of picnic tables and that big fiberglass buffalo nickel. You're welcome to look around if you want." We spent the rest of the afternoon talking about treasure and motorcycles and then we had to say goodbye. Detour ... Daytona !

Location: Wisconsin

2005-11-13T20:23:00.000-05:00

We are checking in from what seems to be the other side of the world. Normally, you would only consider vacationing in Wisconsin in the late fall or winter for skiing or snowmobiling however, we're headed west by northwest on a mission. We are laying a track for our planned Cushman Scooter run to Sturgis. Steinbeck mentioned something in ‘Sea of Cortez’ about carrying 2100 bottles of beer to stay healthy on a biological expedition. Leelee and I avoid the Rickets by packing jars of Tequila and Tang; our biological study would be Tater.

If you want to find the biggest anything especially if it is made of fiberglass, look for it in Wisconsin. Neillsville is home of the largest fiberglass cheese, a replica of the 17 ton cheddar displayed at some world's fair. Along with the largest cheese, Neillsville also lays claim to the world's largest talking cow. La Crosse, claims the world's largest six-pack at the Heileman brewery. The most impressive, world's largest anything, must be displayed at the National Fresh Water Fishing Hall of Fame in Hayward. Unlike Big Musky the dirt digger in Ohio, this musky is the world's largest fiberglass fish as well as the largest fiberglass structure.

Not exactly the largest of anything yet interesting is the Brooks Stevens design studio in Grafton. Brooks Stevens began his career in 1934 and he and his design studio have compiled a long list of design accomplishments. Notables include design work for Willys Jeep, Studebaker, Excalibur, Harley Davidson and most recently Polaris ATV and Victory motorcycles. Arguably his most famous accomplishment appeared in the late 1950s. Brooks Stevens is the father of the 1958 Oscar Mayer Weiner Mobile.

We found the Oscar Mayer Weiner Mobile stuck high in a ditch . While blowing out the carbon, the driver realized that the brakes were no better than you would find in a 1983 Husqvarna. It had been mothballed for some time and he had taken it for a spin. Luckily, we were able to "link" the camper to the wheeled lunchmeat and pull it on to dry road. Tater scrambled atop the vehicle for the ride. In the bright Wisconsin sunshine, he looked like Slim Pickens riding an H-bomb in that "Dr. Strangelove" movie. Old’ Lukas, the driver was so happy that he invited us to his house for a hearty fried baloney lunch with all of the trimmings including my favorite, baked beans seasoned with bacon and lard to taste. All during lunch he talked about his father working in the Civilian Conservation Corps at Mount Rushmore. He said the old-timers told stories of a great treasure hidden in the area and that if we were headed west we should try our luck... Why not, it is on the way.

*Photo courtesy of kraftfoods.com Weinermobile History, http://www.kraftfoods.com/om/history1.htm

No Grand Prize

2005-11-04T22:10:00.000-05:00

Last night, I enjoyed a tasty venison chili. Later, feeling slightly bloated I mustered a burp. The instant I expelled, I also farted. In my life, that never happened before! I did not believe the cacophony possible without suffering some medical catastrophe. Indeed this event was special.

Alas, no strobe lights. No laser show. No master of ceremony to present the grand prize, Las Vegas style. Just fog. . . but, the dog sneezed.

Location: Indianapolis - Another Version

2005-10-31T16:20:00.000-05:00

A short stay in Indianapolis allows a visit with old friend, Larry. Larry is one individual who expresses an inventive and resourceful nature. I have watched him run dual engined go karts fearlessly in unlimited class competition. A Harley rider for many years , he is taking on a new project this winter . Construction is under way on his Vanguard V-twin Cushman scooter. An 18 horsepower engine connected to a torque converter, taken from a mini dragster, will turn an ultralite aircraft wheel and tire . Larry plans to ride this machine to both Daytona and Sturgis. If his calculations are correct he will do it at speeds nearing 79 mi. an hour. We will preview his route to Sturgis hoping to find smooth roads and interesting places. I will monitor Larry's progress.

I received an e-mail with the attached photograph of this terrific boat. It would be great to have a place that I can get a way to do no more than take a nap without interruption. I don't know a lot about boats but this one has a little bit for everybody. It has a nice upper deck cabin that Leelee might enjoy . It also has a rooftop air conditioner to keep Tater off the streets. The lower deck has plenty of storage for sporting gear. I figured before I bought the thing, I better take it out for a spin. After a few phone calls I had Charlie, Wyatt, and Dirtbugger collected for a run to Eagle Creek reservoir, just west of Indianapolis, to see if this boat was too good to be true. We also thought we would get in a little late season Crappie fishing.

Like I said before, I don't know a lot about boats. I don't even swim. So, after rounding up the experts I found a flotation device, a pith helmet and I was ready to go. Wyatt knows all about boats... He has owned a few and sold a few marine toilets in his day. Charlie can be pretty handy with the wrench when it comes to tinkering on boat motors. Dirtbugger, a pretty decent angler, should sniff out the Crappie and have our live wells full in no time. The only glitch would be that Eagle Creek allows only 10 horsepower motors on its watercraft. As shown in the picture, this baby had two, 20 horsepower thunderbolts. Charlie did the math for an easy fix. If we throttled up only one fourth of the way between that turtle and the rabbit, we would only be using 10 horsepower of the available 40. Load up the monkey and the beverage coolers. We are off on a pleasant shake down.

Charlie got behind the steering wheel... err uhm the helm, and launched the boat. In short order we were away from the docks into the open seas of Indiana. In about 400 yds both good and bad points about boating became evident. Charlie, twirling a wrench in his hand, declared that two outboard engines were an asset. The debate of the better two stroke verses for stroke engine was no problem here... we had the best of both worlds. Wyatt enthusiastically pointed out that the amount of oil being puked by the 2 stroke would leave a slick where ever we go. "If we get lost , set it on fire and it will light us all the way to home port. " Tater played with the bait while Dirtbugger stood on the bow like Ahab looking for that White Ghost, the elusive albino Crappie took his finger... explaining a wooden prosthesis and long torment of insplintered nasal passages.

The engines piped along while Dirtbugger baited hooks and Wyatt explained the nuances of a pok-a-dot Hula Popper. Charlie sang the song about ladies of Spain, the one Robert Shaw sang in Jaws. All was right. I was happily enjoying the boat I would buy when BANG! That "Time Dilation" crap started again. The bow lunged into the surf scooping up 8 inches of water. I looked to Charlie as he scrambled to stop the now airborne propellers. Wyatt dove for is tackle box while Tater climbed the rigging to the air conditioner, one last Titanic amorous adventure. I tumbled the length of the boat holding my pith helmet. Brother Dirtbugger grabbed me by the collar just before I flew over the railing to my watery grave. Saving my life, he must have figured that since I had not signed off on the boat that it was not yet part of my estate. I let out a scream... Not one of those manly " I'm the captain, now hear this " screams but a high-pitched, little girly, " look a spider " screams. I'm not proud... Friggen boats!

Deadly Catch

2005-10-24T12:39:00.000-05:00

We reminisce this tale and debate the accuracy of our memory. - So much so, that we challenge each other to describe our own version on our blogs. Josh, who pens the “My Mule” blog, and I have known each other since the early ‘70s. Josh’s older brother Charles Chadwick, my twin brother Joe, and older brother Big John witnessed the event. The players’ identities remain mysteries. Now, nearly thirty years later, they refute the truth.

One of the country’s largest city parks, Eagle Creek Reservoir is found on the Indianapolis northwest side Designed for flood control and nature habitat, the reservoir serves as a recreational area and city water supply, The reservoir headwaters at 79th street and runs south 4.5 miles to the dam near 34th street. The 56th street causeway bisects the vessel. The dam, completed 1968, retains 1350 surface acres. The primary forage fish is gizzard shad and it supports Walleye, Bass, Bluegill, and more. Boats are limited to a 10 hp maximum.

Josh’s dad was a phenomenon at buying boats. In fact, this pontoon was the first of many future boat purchases. He bought it and a small speedboat in the same summer. Undoubtedly, he acquired them in a brilliant barter. This was a typical 1970s aluminum pontoon boat - green, 16’ deck, aluminum railing, green Astro-Turf carpet, and 10hp motor. I have no recollection of seats, benches, storage, or canopy. With anchors front and back and a “helm”, it was no frills, pure boat. Josh’s dad called it ‘Annie’s Pride”. We called it the USS Wet Dream.

Charlie and Big John were in the same grade and shared an equal obsession for moto-cross motorcycles. Josh, Joe and I share adventures of backyard minibike racing, camping and fishing. We relied on our older brothers to drive. Big John drove a custom (homebuilt 76 Dodge) van. It sported lakester side pipes and rally wheels outside. Hideous brown shag carpet squares and wood paneling adorned the interior with a black velvet-like upholstered couch, CB radio, and huge-ass quadraphonic 8-track stereo (8 speakers, 4 brands). Aerosmith and Blue Oyster Cult. . . Awesome in quad!

I shudder at the following memory. Even thinking about it makes me feel like I’m swallowing a tennis ball. For on that day, we knew not what horror await.

On a crisp autumn afternoon, we boarded. An inventory of gear included fishing poles and a compliment of tackle like spinners, jigs, worms, hula-poppers, and other brightly colored shiny things. We stowed coolers for soda and sandwiches and one to bring home our harvest. We carried fishing licenses, seating and gasoline. I sported a life vest and pith helmet, a prophetic preparation. This day we preyed on Pomoxis annularis, the elusive White Crappie.

Farewell and adieu to you fair Spanish ladies,
Farewell and adieu you ladies of Spain.
For we’ve received orders for to sail back to Boston,
And till nevermore shall we see you again.

Josh and Joe sat on the fore deck, their lawn chairs in front of the railing. Between them was Josh’s disproportionately large tackle box. (You see, Josh was a small kid. He, weighing less than 100 pounds when on his freshmen wrestling team, owned a 30 lb tackle box.) While dual figureheads surveyed the horizon, all eyes strained for evidence of our tasty prize, Charlie captained from the ship’s helm in one of the chairs we swiped from his mom’s card table set. John and I made passage mid-ship.

We cast lines at the 56th street bridge, our little boat bobbed happily in the gentile swell. Time passed fruitlessly and we agreed by majority to try our luck near the dam. Josh weighed the bow anchor and Charlie the stern. We struck out for the inlet at the southwest corner. I felt uneasy as the engine roared at flank speed for I knew, cruel mistresses are luck and the sea.

Entering the inlet, a throng of bank-side anglers greeted us. We found the hot spot but we were late.

WHAM!!! The bow pitched down and rolled to starboard, hell-bent for murky depths unknown. Tearing metal raped the pristine tranquility of the park, the sound Godzilla screams as he tromps through Tokyo.

A white water explosion engulfed the craft, luckily sending Joe and the huge bait box tumbling over the railing and into the boat. Tilting forward, the now exposed screw sang wildly. Charlie scrambled to silence the banshee and a wide-eyed John grasped helplessly at a hoagie. Josh! . . . poor Josh went overboard to embrace certain doom. He thrashed fighting death with every stroke.

Thinking quickly I collected Joe and all of Josh’s lures except one hula-popper, tripped the engine kill switch and put mustard on John’s sandwich. I stripped my safari style chapeau and threw it to my floundering friend, knowing its buoyancy would support his picayune body. He grabbed his life raft and paddled toward shore.

By the time the pontoon resurfaced the deck held six inches of liquid. Within minutes the game warden arrived in the water cop boat leading an aquatic cavalry of emergency equipment. His assessment determined that an improperly stowed anchor had fallen from the bow, snagging a submerged stump and nearly capsizing the boat. “Roscoe, your cool headed action saved everyone on board”, he said to the applause of the embanked anglers. Later, we went for pizza.

Kind ladies and gentleman, I’m no braggart. This is but a humble fishing story. Undeniably, had James Cameron learned of this legend he would have wasted no time on that other boat movie.

You might ask, “What happened to Josh?” . . . Josh swam to shore like Harrison Ford did in “The Fugitive”.

Location: Napannee (Undercover)

2005-10-14T21:46:00.000-05:00

Northern Indiana provides a wealth of opportunity for us in our discovery of new places and through a chaotic introduction, new friends. When the dust settled, we found ourselves without a home, transportation, or any idea of what to do in the near future. In a uniquely diplomatic gesture Tater befriended our one-time adversaries by reaching out and swiping one of their hats. Seeing Tater wearing a black wide brimmed Amish hat amused the group, providing relief to a near tragic event. While waiting for the tow truck, we pulled the buggy from the ditch and calmed their horse. Our new friends will remain nameless... It is for their protection as well as our own.

They invited us into their homes. For the next two weeks we where the beneficiaries of a unique culture steeped in tradition and good will. They recognized our dilemma and opened their hearts and their private lives to us until we were on our feet. It took a couple of days to salvage the camper. Most of our belongings were retrieved, inventoried, and thoroughly cleaned. The slide through the muddy ditch was bad enough and compounded by Tater's digestive snafu. A lead provided by the tow truck operator located our new means of transportation. A derelict plumbers van seemed rough at first, but showed some potential. Our friends cannot drive but were not opposed to modifying the truck to serve as our new home. Their expert craftsmanship outfitted the unit with appropriate cabinetry and other home comforts that will make the longest trip pleasurable.

It would be only two days before we would leave. As the men smoked their evening pipes on the porch and reflected upon the day's work, "Johan" motioned me to a more private conversation. At his request, I would meet them at midnight and transport their group to parts unknown. . . The designated time arrived when I entered the barn to find a lantern light surrounded by eight phantoms. Wide brimmed hats and black shrouded faces hid their identities. Black woolen coats carried tools of the farm, except one. This specter stood a head taller, dressed in a sleeveless linen shirt and black vest. He carried a sledgehammer in each hand. On one mammoth bicep, I could see it. The skeleton driving a wagon and team of horses from the fires of hell, above which an angel observed. Underneath was scribed "Born to Buggy ". They joined hands and whispered "Bot boys, vat vill you do as we come for you." I said a silent prayer for my trusted monkey and myself for we found ourselves in the middle of the Amish who Shun Worldly Attitudes & Technologies.

Tater, "Johan" and I climbed into the cab of the van while the remaining crew found places in back for our trip. A few minutes down the back roads we happened upon a barn. From it we could hear fiddle music. We rushed the door and found inside the most unique artistic dance club I had ever seen. It was absolutely plain. No brass, no laser lights, no smoke machines, nothing but extraordinarily fine, handcrafted woodwork. A dancer shrieked and ran to the back room. She had no dollar bills, just apron pockets stuffed full of small jars of jam and sugar candies. Through the open door I saw it, a light, an electric light. A crewman exclaimed, " Here is the beast "! The vigils stood the offenders against the wall at which time their leader shook the Good Book overhead and began a sermon. He spoke for some time and yelled for even more. When the sermon finished, a nod to the giant and like John Henry, he attacked. Blow upon blow showered sparks as metal rang sending the Jeff Gordon vending machine straight to the belly of hell. With the deed done, all were told to go home, work hard, and pray for forgiveness.

Back on the highway, Leelee was mad. She had been bored out of her skull making quilts. In that snippy way she asked "Where were you and that monkey last night? Why does Tater thump that Good Book when you pass on the double yellow? If you think you are going to get away with this, guess again." . . Uh, Tater and I raided an artistic dance club with an Amish SWAT team. We lined up the perpetrators, gave them a scolding, send them home and destroyed their pop machine. . . "Yeah, Right! Your a lying son of a . . "

Location: Napannee, Indiana

2005-10-11T20:04:00.000-05:00

When a chimpanzee eats four bananas, a coconut cream pie, and chases it with 64 paraffin crayons you can imagine the results. Or maybe, you can't. In fact, I dare you to try. Lorileelee and I protected ourselves in our bright yellow rain gear, goggles, and some drugstore surgical masks. We poured about a quart of pepto into the beast but it just wouldn't take hold. At best 30 mi. an hour was top speed. Too many bumps in the road upset Tater even more. Besides it was all I could do to hold the camper steady while Lorileelee squeegeed the inside of the windshield.

Suddenly, between squeeges, an Orange triangle appeared. Sometimes it is called "Time Dilation" - In one micro moment that seems to take forever, a BANG shook our conestoga as a black shadow crossed the windshield. We fought it hard but the old reliable tilted hard to port. I looked around to see all of our belongings fly about the house, chimp included. It laid on its side and slid to a stop. An eerie silence followed, broken only by the moans of my fellow passengers. Still for a moment, I made sure all appendages were in line. The impact knocked off my shoes and glasses. Tater wrapped himself in a curtain and plugged his ears with his fingers. Called to Lorileelee " are you OK? " and she replied " you dumbass ". She was okay.

We could see movement through the now translucent windows and hear pounding on the roof. We mustard ourselves and climbed out to meet an awe struck group. Their vehicle in the other ditch, wheels spinning. They stood there amazed at the sight of our home made, yellow decontamination suits. We were dung covered aliens exiting a UFO near an artistic dance club. Finally, one broke from his trance, hauled back and punched me in the side of the neck screaming " its go time you heathen ! " Black wide-bremmed hats and yellow rain slickers flew like gloves at a hockey game. Those guys were some pissed-off Mennonites.

To make a long story short... The cavalry of emergency equipment had our name on it. When the dust settled, the police made us all shake hands and ask each other for forgiveness. Tater latched on to one of the guys, a new buddy (the guys were Amish, not Mennonite. Minnonites drive, Amish buggy.). We inspected each other's property damage to find the camocamper lost and the buggy repairable. Things could be worse. However it is the first time I've ever seen the terms "Amish assailant ", " road rage " and " explosive diarrhea " all mentioned in one police report. I'm not sure how the insurance company is going to except this.

Location: Ohio

2005-10-09T14:41:00.000-05:00

Disappointed that we missed the Crayola factory in Pennsylvania, we stopped by an X-mart store and bought Tater the big 64 box. As we crossed into Ohio I grew almost giddy with excitement. I heard legends of the grandest type. Screw the baskets, we were looking for Big Muskie. Last seen in Cumberland, Big Muskie weighed over 13,000 tons and was longer than a football field. The world's largest earth moving machine was unfortunately scrapped in 1999. Undaunted , we continued to Lima to see "The Museum of Things Swallowed by Mental Patients". We arrived to find that we had been duped. Lima is the home of Dr. Yingling , who has a personal collection of abnormal things normal people swallow. Lima at one time was also home to a hospital for the criminally insane. The confusion was understandable. The Allen County Museum does however have a fine collection of stuffed albino animals.

We trekked North and West stopping at other tourist highlights, visited a few flea markets where I purchased a fish locator for $4. Nearing the Indiana border we spied Raymond's Pot luck drive-in movie theater. It was almost dark so we decided to pull in where $8 a carload made it inviting. Raymond stopped us at a little shack where we paid him and he handed us a grocery sack. Since we had the camper he asked us to park in the back. We drove up the lane behind the house to find his back yard had room for about seven cars. We, being the only patrons, parked behind the clothes line as instructed and could see a large screen TV perched atop 55 gallon drums at the other end of the yard. We opened the sack to find two bags of post-microwaved popcorn, a 2 liter bottle of soda, and a note saying that the movie was free, we paid for refreshments. It also had a map to his and hers port-o-let's as well as a two dollar off coupon for their Thursday night sardine extravaganza.

Showtime, Raymond's wife Maud came out of the house wearing her house coat and slippers. Balancing a cigarette and beer in one hand, a TV-guide and flashlight in the other, she informed everyone that the evening's performance would be " Ready to Rumble " starring David Arquette. At that point she turned the television on and tuned in HBO. well, all I can say is Tom Hanks step aside, David Arquette has Oscar winner written all over him. After the movie we turned on the toon channel to watch Magilla Gorilla and Tater entered seventh monkey heaven playing on the swing set, eating his crayons. Raymond commented "Your KTM jackets tell me that you are bike riders. Let me show you something." at that point he motioned us to the garage where he uncovered an old BSA flat tracker. We spent the rest of the night reminiscing of races past.

Location: Pennsylvania

2005-10-07T21:50:00.000-05:00

The glories of Pennsylvania make the mind boggle. We pilgrim the state and marvel at its splendor. Our first goal was to find " Amos " the 15 ft. tall Amish man of Denver. . .No joy, the restaurant Amos advertised was sold and the behemoth relocated. Next was Linesville. "The spillway at Pymatuning Reservoir, near Linesville, PA, is famous for a freakish spectacle. It’s known as the place where the ducks walk on the fish. Carp collect at the base of the spillway at such a density that ducks can cross from one side to the other and barely touch the water. - www.roadsideamerica.com." Oxford is the home of one of the world's largest Edsel collections. Hugh Lesley owns 172 of the magnificent machines.

Suddenly the enchantment ended. It was the wrench in the works, the gum on the shoe, the giant (keeping it PG-13) t-rd in the pipe . . .Lorileelee proclaimed "we are going to the shopping mall!" Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe, she knew what she is looking for. Maybe, we could go in , get what we need, and leave. Maybe, there is a God that could strike me with dysentery.

I sit in the middle of the mall with all the old men, too old to fight . Old warriors left to tend the fire while women forage and young scouts do brave things far away . We have no fire. We have but a water fixture gurgling like our last breath. Tater wears a yellow vest, a camouflage like those helper dogs wear - The ones that wheelchair kids sneak into all kinds of places. He stares at me with that look. The look that says, "If I had opposable thumbs, I'd beat your eyes black and steal your truck." I look at the packages surrounding my feet, pastels waft flowery scents. I raise my head and see an old man eyeballing me. "What you in for kid?" I replied, "potpourri and a baby shower gift. " He nodded knowingly and I look down at my feet ashamed.

Others in my new tribe have scavenged things to eat. One has a big pretzel with cheese stuff. Another is eating the ice-cream pellets, which look more like cottage cheese. One big guy gnaws on a sausage stick bought at the hickory barn . My mind wanders to a happier place - A place where bark busters shred sapling trees and where dirt has more flavor than a cini-mun-bun. I am alone enclosed in my helmet. I control my destiny. On my dirt bike I am the only one who can disappoint myself. There's a reason why my bike has one set of foot pegs.

I snap back to reality as she taps me on the shoulder. After all, this is the girl that I told myself I would spend my money on stupid stuff if she wanted. Besides, the guys are checking her out as we walk past the storefronts. Either that or they are watching me drag this monkey through the mall. "It's time for my prize, sweetheart. I've been waiting patiently for you, now it's time I get to grab that 36-volt cordless impact... Hey, did you hear me? Let's go to Sears... What do you mean we have to go? You can burn four hours looking for potpourri and I can't have 20 minutes at the tool shed? This is unbelievable. You're going to that coed baby shower on your own, I'll sit in the garage if I need to. Tater, we have to salvage this some how. Go fling a dump at the cell phone stand and I'll pull the fire alarm. We'll affect an inconspicuous departure amid a cavalry of ..."

Location: Stamford / Hartford, Conn.

2005-09-23T08:09:00.000-05:00

We needed a change of pace after the Indiana State fairgrounds incident. None of us had ever been to the North East yet we had heard that we could find the world's largest lobster trap in Oxford, Maine. We wanted to find it and we were hoping to see what beast required the world's largest lobster trap. Maybe we could even broker a deal with those folks up in Loch Ness, Scotland. We neared, our inquiries would not steer us to our goal. We began doubting ourselves. Was this myth, legend, fiction or fact?

We arrived in Connecticut a picturesque place, which lives to reputation. As we toured a quaint village an edifice beyond our imagination mushroomed from the horizon, a structure surpassing the Taj Mahal or Notre Dame. Lorileelee and I argued that it possibly shadowed Grace Land ... I say never, but close. Yes, it was the home of Vince and Linda McMahon, of the WWE! Lorileelee jammed on the brakes and parked it near the front gate. We scrambled atop the camo-camper in order to see over the fence. My jaw dropped... At the corner of the mansion, an Amanasaki Daug Haus tethered a large Rott. I was so proud!

A deep booming voice asked us what we were doing. I spun around and was struck speechless. Vince himself was there to run us off... The second time in ten minutes that I was filled with overwhelming pride. "Those KTM jackets y'all are wearing tell me that you are bike riders. Me too! Why don't you come on in for a refreshing beverage? " He introduced us to Linda, a wonderful lady. She treated us to lemon aid and finger sandwiches. Tater behaved himself on the deevan, apparently realizing that we were in the presence of greatness. We talked about motorcycles and dog houses and eventually the world's largest lobster trap. Vince began to laugh as he told us... had he thought of that scam earlier, the WWE would have never come about. "They're making tons of money from the giant lobster traps up there."

Lorileelee confided that she always wanted to be in show business. They offered their best advice and said, " If you want to get into entertainment go west ". Her eyes lighted. She turned to me and said, " If I want to follow my dream, we must go to Barstow. That is where Waylon Jennings got his start. " I knew it was Littlefield, Texas, but it’s her dream.

Location: Indiana State fairgrounds, Indianapolis

2005-09-08T08:16:00.000-05:00

We're headed south from Michigan for two reasons. Tater has not recovered from his electric rodeo and we thought a couple of weeks rest and recreation at the fair would do him some good. The second reason it is that I had a chance to fulfill a kidhood dream; driving the State Fair, people moving, tractor shuttle. A guy named Mick set it up for me . They don't take just anyone, they have to want you. He drove last year and put in a good word. Mick also said that he set the record of 582 laps around the outside of a 1 mi. track in 10 days. It's kind of like a big scrambles. He never said how many people he carried, but I figured if I came up with a good gimmick, I could really pack the people on those wagons.

We stopped in Kokomo to see 'Old Ben' the 5,000 lb. bull (dead and stuffed) and the world's largest sycamore stump. As we bathed in the majesty of the colossal oddities , Lorileelee struck upon the idea that providing an in-transit dinner would have people scrambling to ride the tractor shuttle.

We got to the State fairgrounds , registered the camper and proved that I had a driver's license. They assigned a tractor shuttle to me that I found in the horse lot. I jumped in and turned the key. It fired with a groan and a belch of black diesel . Lorileelee climbed in beside me and Tater easily found the rooftop air conditioner. A quick grind of the gearshift and we were off for hot laps. When we hit Turn 3, Lorileelee screamed and pointed to the roadside. There it was... Our galley. I pulled to the side of the road, backed up, and in the span of two minutes we had a full blown corn dog kitchen trailing our people mover.

Week Two

Location: Indiana State fairgrounds, Indianapolis, Indiana - DNF

The worst kind of luck. We needed better than 58 laps a day but sometimes it doesn't pay to even get out of bed . At morning's light, we'd begin by trying to get Tater into his tuxedo. His job was to take tickets and double as maitre'd. Lorileelee would start the deep fryer by changing oil and defrosting the dogs and elephant ears dough. I'd give the tractor a walk around and kick the tires on the people wagons.

When they opened the gates, people mobed the shuttle. They'd bark orders " Take me here... Take me there... There's hair in my elephant ear... Your monkey is knocking the air conditioner. " None of them cared that we ran a schedule. " We can't jump off this thing if it's still moving ". WHINERS!! Then there was grandpa driving the tractor in front of us... Starting, stopping, starting, stopping... ALL DAY LONG!!! Things finally snapped. I followed that guy for seven hours and logged only 26 laps. It was time to take action. By this time I knew he took the entry into turn one, wide. The next lap I was gonna hole-shot the geezer , diamond turn two , and put some distance between us.

Well, almost everything went according to plan. I got even with him, and side checked him at the horse barns. I would have passed him clean, except he corrected and smacked my weenie wagon . That sent him off toward the mud bog pit . It also sent a whiplash through the rig splashing grease everywhere and beating Lorileelee up pretty good. People were screaming and pitching their souvenirs while Tater scrambled into the cab with me. He put a death grip hug around my neck as I struggled to control the mechanical beast.

The dust finally settled around the department of Natural Resources building where they keep the big fish. We managed to scoop Lorileelee into the camper during the confusion, effecting an inconspicuous departure amid a cavalry of emergency equipment.

Location: Sunrize Acres, Jackson, Mich.

2005-08-26T23:19:00.000-05:00

We circled the countryside of Jackson, lost. We were drawn there in some pilgrimage not understanding what we were looking for or where to find it. We'd apparently cruise the main strip once too often, or that's what the local cop said. Eyeball on the camo-camper he asked if we were looking for Ted. I looked to Lorileelee and she blurted out an enthusiastic " you bet ". I was oblivious. . . She shrugged her shoulders as the cop returned to his cruiser. A moment later , he returned with a sketch map and explained how to find Sunrize Acres . We loaded up and away wanting to avoid any misunderstanding.

Figuring why not, we followed the trail to an arbored gate. A guy in battle dress took one look and waved us past. Lorileelee and I, bewildered at this point, parked the rig in an open spot. As we surveyed haven, a large stage flanked by speaker towers and light canopy occupied one end of the clearing. Across the compound I spied racks of crossbows, several quad bikes, olive drab shelters, and an open fire above which a porcine carcass cooked slowly. At a distant shelter, a door opened slightly. It then flew open and a long haired man exited in a half run toward us.

He reached us with an open hand and said "Rippin Class C you got. Did you know there is a chimpanzee knocking the rooftop air conditioner? ". "You folks will be sticking around for the show tonight." We acknowledged his greeting, confirmed Tater's amorous behavior and obliged his invitation. He must have been Ted.

Hours later, fat on wild boar, we with a few hundred others were treated to one of Ted's concerts. In the middle of his last solo, a dark shadow could be seen over head. I looked around and realized Tater was missing. His affinity for electricity lured him into the lights 20 ft. above. At the height of Ted's effort the beast grabbed an electric umbilical and the sky exploded. From the primate Tesla coil, lightning radiated to the speakers setting off acoustic Roman candles and in an instant the whole place was black and quiet except for the thud of Tater's return. We managed to scoop him into the camper during the confusion and effect an inconspicuous departure amid a cavalry of emergency equipment. Tater is a little groggy but seems to be coming out of the ordeal.

Location: Grand Rapids, Mich.

2005-08-23T14:51:00.000-05:00

It has been fairly uneventful travel... Fine scenery though. Near Grand Rapids at lunch time we decided to stop for a bite to eat at B King. Spying a familiar sign , we pull into a fast-food restaurant. The land yacht won't fit through the drive up so we dine inside . Behind the counter, a man looked familiar. He wasn't dressed like the others in their paper hats and blue tunics. He stood 6 ft. or so with an imposing build. His eyes hiding behind dark aviation glasses and his cheeks carpeted by sideburns. His name tag said Boyd Sivle but there was more to him. His rhinestone cape gave it away . This man was a man of importance... He was the manager.

Boyd Sivle nodded and motioned me to the end of the counter. He said " I see by the KTM jackets y'all are bike riders. Me too, for a long time. If you're interested we can serve you a real good lunch, off menu." (Roscoe's Restaurant Review:) He favored us with the house special. Promptly returning, it arrived piping hot in its obligatory packet and (having been on a steady diet of hamburgers), I inquired about the contents within the polystyrene container. Expecting to hear "burger", I was surprised when he replied, "It’s the chicken fried steak...mighty tasty." I was skeptical.

This wasn't the deep fried swill you can remember from the high school lunch line...... Mashed potatoes, green beans, and a large homemade roll swamped with butter accompanied this chicken fried steak! All but the roll slumbered under a blanket of white gravy one fourth of an inch thick and forming a thin skin as it cooled. A coronary thrombosis awaited and I knew it. I was excited yet frightened.

I wasn't sure what to do. I knew that it was this or the peanut butter & jelly sandwich with the side of cheetos that I was saving from mornings breakfast so, with great hesitation, I took the first bite. This stuff was okay. A few mouthfuls I realized that this was GREAT. Four minutes later, foaming gravy at the mouth, I swear to God I saw Elvis or I swear to Elvis I saw God. I don't know.... I wasn't sure then, I'm not sure now. I do know that was the best chicken fried steak I've ever put down my gullet!

Location: Red Bud, Buchanan, Mich.

2005-08-12T21:06:00.000-05:00

We haven't checked in recently because we've been having a hard time finding an Internet connection. It's real tough with this system. First you have to find a pay phone where you can pull the camper close. Then you get to splice a patch cord to the pay phone and string it through the window to the laptop. Most businesses are reluctant to let you do this so It's much easier to wait until after they are closed under the cover of darkness. We are working on a better system.

We stopped in Buchanan. I haven't been here since the late 70's. Wyatt and I loaded my Country Squire one fine September afternoon anticipating a warm and enjoyable weekend of professional motocross . We're gonna see our heros; Roger DeCoster, Bob " Hurricane " Hannah, and others. We arrived amid successive snow, sleet and rain squalls. We froze our backsides off in 3 in. of mud. Weekend highlights included seeing Chuck Sun break his Husky in two , snapping the frame just behind the triple clamp . Someone carried the forks as Chuck struggled to drag the back half of the bike to the truck. Bob Hanna nearly hit me in the pits screaming "YOU-DA-MUNNA-FA -!!!!" I'm not exactly sure what he was saying. I do know that if he had been 2 inches closer, he would have been trailing my innards from his handlebars , stringing them through the pits like crime scene tape. You missed me Bob, a true professional, and I'll say it right back at you " YOU-DA-MAN!!! "

Hello Welcome Reader,

2005-07-19T19:40:00.000-05:00

The blogs titled “dog house - A Roscoe History” parts one and two are long. You will find them below or tucked away in the June 2005 archive. Tedious , I know. Get comfortable, I’ll tell you why.

In my formative years, my circle of friends and I grew up on the slightly rolling, glacial plains of Indiana, USA – farmland. The neighborhood kids lived two miles away. Because all of our parents tired of driving us to each other’s houses, they allowed us to buy mini-bikes and small off-road motorcycles. The bikes enabled us to visit and when we crossed the fuzzy line of acceptable behavior, mothers sent us home.

The enlightenment of cable or satellite television had not reached us in the outback. We tuned in six fuzzy channels; three network, one religion, an independent and the Public Broadcasting. We entertained ourselves inventing practical jokes, building moto-cross tracks, throwing dirt clods and sharpening our senses of humor watching cartoons and BBC imports of “Benny Hill”’ and “Monty Python”. Fine literature encompassed fishing, hunting and off-road motorcycle magazines. We made do creating our own fun. Jump ahead a few years and the ol’ bunch, now states apart, continue to laugh and joke around on bulletin boards and blog sties.

One friend and I shared a secret from the others . . . His Ma turned us on to J.R.R. Tolkien’s “The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings”. Had the gang known that we read books, let alone books about Elves and Wizards, they would have kicked our Asses.

Later, Tolkien wrote “The Silmarillion”. A precursor to “The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings”, it provided historical backgrounds for characters in the first / next book and trilogy. “The Silmarillion” confused me so that I read the book on how to read “The Silmarillion”. Similarly, George Lucas introduced the “Star Wars” trilogy, episodes 4, 5 and 6, before prefacing them with 1, 2 and 3.

But, what has “dog house” to do with Tolkien and Lucas? “dog house” has nothing to do with Tolkien and Lucas except for a few feeble comparisons.

Unlike Tolkien and Lucas, “dog house” is not as action packed. Peter Jackson will not bang on the camper door begging for the movie rights. Like Tolkien and Lucas, “dog house” precedes the rest of the story. It’s a history to the adventure of why “traveling in this great country, especially with a good woman and a chimpanzee, is the American dream”. It’s a tedious read but it helps explain stuff that comes later.

Take 10 or 15 minutes to read it and join in if you like. If you don’t like, remember you’re reading a drivel filled blog site for entertainment.

dog house - A Roscoe History Part One

2005-06-23T19:12:00.000-05:00

Long ago, on a distant bulletin board

Most read story in TeamMooch!:
Comments are owned by the poster. We aren't responsible for their content.

Posted by: wyatt on Apr 16, 2001 - 08:13 PM
[TeamMooch!] I have an old refrigerator I hope to convert into a dog house. Does anyone have some old motorcycle parts I can use for the conversion?

by roscoe on Apr 17, 2001 - 04:48 PM
You don't really want to convert an old refrigerator into a dog house . First, if that dog bites into the feon coil he's gonna get a real bad headache. If your dog gets a real bad headache, it's gonna be grumpy. B, a refrigerator can be top-heavy. One good gust of wind can squish Old Faithful flat (flat dog = crying kids). Third, purchase a washing machine converted into a dog house. You will enjoy a lower center of gravity and without freon , it is environmentally friendly. I have an old Maytag modified with some Hodaka Super Rat components that works just fine. It's a classic. And my Rott, 3-Foot just loves it. He is a lot smarter than old 2-Foot.

by Anonymous on Apr 17, 2001 - 07:21 PM
1. How much for the Maytag and do you offer financing? My old dog four foot has one foot in the grave after he ate the freon coil, you were a little late on the advice but thanks anyway.

by roscoe on Apr 19, 2001 - 04:00 PM
That Super Rat Maytag is not for sale. It is just a demonstrator. Now, I do have an avocado KawaMana I could put four foot into in just 41 or 42 easy payments . Sorry to hear the old pup is under the weather. He may come around in a few days. Maybe he can use a little Pepto & 7up, that always makes a rumblegut feel better.

by Anonymous on Apr 19, 2001 - 07:19 PM
My neighbor has a nice motorhome that I might trade you for the house. Do you barter?

by wyatt (wyatt@teammooch.com) on Apr 25, 2001 - 04:57 PM
I'd like to make mention of the fact that I bought one of Roscoes Washing MAchine dog houses and my dog aint one damn bit cleaner than when I first put him in the contraption. The Rinse cycle is broken and spin dry just made my dog throw up. So what gives? I want my neighbors motor home I traded you for it back!

by roscoe on Apr 26, 2001 - 03:41 PM
I'm sorry, there will be no refund on the motorhome. I traded it to my neighbor Freak Show Roy for a chimpanzee named Diablo. Freak Show was going on the road and needed a tour bus. He said that monkey was a prime ape so I figured he was pretty smart and I could teach him to strip out washing machines. Since I don't speak Spanish I named him Tater (Tater Chimp, get it?). Well, things just got worse after that. It took an hour-and-a-half to wrestle Tater into his coveralls . He wouldn't keep his tools organized and all he wanted to do was pick bugs off the dogs.

The other day at lunch, Tater went nuts . He jumped up on the table, stripped himself naked, and started playing with his fish stick and hush puppies. He screamed and threw food everywhere. Old Two Foot sat there howling and confused. He's got a cataract in one eye , a sty on the other and his good ear was full of coleslaw . I thought that I would never get things to calm down.

So , if you have problems with your new dog palace, you can bring it back. But, your taken the monkey !

by wyatt (wyatt@teammooch.com) on Apr 26, 2001 - 05:01 PM
I'll take the Chimp and put him to work detailing cars. Monkey Shines Detailing will be the name of my company.Does he eat people food?

by roscoe on Apr 28, 2001 - 08:03 PM
Freak Show told me Feed that ape what you eat. One thing is certain, he doesn't like seafood. Otherwise, he eats almost anything. Be careful. If you set him to work detail on cars, he is liable to start eaten turtle wax like chip dip. I don't know if he likes the wax or if he likes the turtle, but he can sure power that stuff down. Burritos and bananas!!! Do not feed him burritos and bananas! WHEW!!!

If you want this monkey for your car business, let's figure out a deal. Maybe we can trade some detailing on my new dog house palace line. A good buff and wax on household appliances can make them look like new .

by Anonymous on Apr 28, 2001 - 11:56 PM
No deal! Your Monkey is mine, and if you want to start trouble then you ask the little fool monkey who he wants to live with? ME IS the correct answer you monkey hogging fool!

by Anonymous on May 01, 2001 - 11:02 PM
Roscoe, looks like weve got a real crack pot on the Forum. Monkey Hogging fool?

by roscoe on May 02, 2001 - 05:26 PM
OK Mister , it's a done deal. Spit and a handshake that monkey is yours . No more questions, arguments, promises, warranties or refunds... He is your monkey. May he bring to you all the joy and happiness that he gave me. In some ways I hate to see him go but, in most ways I say good luck and don't let him into the tequilas. He can be a mean drunk.

by Anonymous on May 02, 2001 - 07:02 PM
Not so fast there slicky! Keep away him away from the Tequila? I never trust a monkey that cant hold its liqour, find some other sucker! Now I recognise you for being one of those slick, fast talkin sophistimiticated con-men, I aint biten, fish is dumber waters slicky.Deals off!

by roscoe on May 02, 2001 - 07:49 PM
It's the darnest thing, just as I thought I was stuck with that monkey I fell into a gold mine. After dinner Tater got mad because I would not let him watch Adam 12 on the telvision set. Well, he got up and ripped the air-conditioner right out of the window! As he threw a fit around the garage, the insides fell out of that air-conditioner. With a little more work and some plexi-glass , it's going to make a great hamster or Guinea pig habitat. It needs a little more research and development because right now that motor driven exercise wheel really tuckers the little guys out. I'll grab the sprockets and chain from an old YZ and change the gearing. Thanks to that chimpanzee, I have a new product line . I'm gonna make millions!!

by baker (google.com) on May 02, 2001 - 08:51 PM
Tread lightly my friend, I hold the Patent to the habitat cooler. My brain thought it up not your monkey.

by charlie on May 04, 2001 - 09:59 AM
Well I'm glad to see our web site is doing good service to those who need some safe place to hide. Roscoe, do you have any thing for my cat? 22 pound simese and meaner than hell. She killed 11 men in 9 minutes, she is hungry and must be fed daily, I just don't have it in me any more, old age and being banned from Osco dosen't help. Osco and Roscoe, they rhyme, they both treat cyapedigo, but one wears a diaper and one sells a diaper. A canoe tips and the pricks on the out side of a porcupine. Gotta go lick my wounds, thank dog I'm not injured where I can't lick. Waiting to cage a kitty in Cadiz. The moral to this story is if you can't remember the joke just blurt out the punch line, chances are we've all heard the joke before.
Help my cat.
Charlie

by wyatt (wyatt@teammooch.com) on May 04, 2001 - 10:18 AM
I have an old dryer, could that be converted to a exercise wheel for a gerbil who has a bad case of giganticism? I live near a nuculer plant.

by roscoe on May 04, 2001 - 08:21 PM
Charlie, HUH ? What did Wyatt's radioactive gerbil say to Charlie when he was hungry? Here kitty kitty! Now, that is a punch line. Has George W. Bush been writing your material? I have a monkey who's a tree climbing, p@@p flinging brain trust compared to that babble . What do you do for a 22 lb. cat? Well, I'm not really a cat type person so I'll just say buy nice big tupper-ware with a good seal. Otherwise, come on down to the monkey house . . .err, uh... design department. We'll hang an old Yokohama knobby tire for a swing and put Tater to work on your new cat house.

Wyatt, you could be on to something here. If there were some way to plug this glow in the dark Super rat in to that dryer, it might be the purest form of potential energy. A rodent dynamo! Hook that beast up to a turbine and power California!

by Anonymous on May 05, 2001 - 01:47 AM
Power California? We only need just enough to shift the fault line just a tinsey bit, then my Nevada properties will finally be a smart investment.

by charlie on May 05, 2001 - 10:24 AM
Does California have a delete button? I know my cat does, you tickel that one spot and she is gone. Roscoe's monkey found out the hard way when we visited the design department. ( Boy was that a suprise, design slum is a better description ) Washing machines stacked up with wrecked cycles every where in the mud. Dogs and monkeys peeking out of every appliance, I must say Roscoe sure tests his product before offering them up for sale. Feral hogs protected the compound and Roscoe just sat there on his porch with a shot gun across his lap. Yea, I bought one of his machines but I don't think I will go back to pick it up, I'll just kiss the $290 good bye and thank dog I excaped with my life. He can have the cat too!

by wyatt (wyatt@teammooch.com) on May 05, 2001 - 11:57 AM
You know what they say:
Pigs get fat,
Hogs get slaughtered.

by roscoe on May 07, 2001 - 08:23 PM
That Charlie fellow called the other day and said he wanted to see the showroom. He said he wanted a dog house for his cat. I figure a sale is a sale so, I gave him directions. He sure asked a lot of questions on the telephone and when he finally got here he sure seemed nervous... Real jumpy. Kept turning around and checking his back pocket like he forgot his wallet. My guess was that he's a cat person and the dogs must have made him skittish. He finally decided on a harvest gold Kenmorazuki . He helped cart it out to the end of the drive , paid for it, and said that he would be back to pick it up later. I haven't seen him since. I thought, maybe he didn't like the place but then he wrote that letter to this bulletin board thing.

I can only tell you that his eloquent word picture could only begin to capture its true majasty . To see the place at sunset, an amber cascade twinkles off motorcycle chrome and reflects from those home appliances like a fiery waterfall. It will leave you choked up on natures splinder. My true love Griselda called it "God's Little Acre" until she run off .

by Anonymous on May 07, 2001 - 10:57 PM
Bravo!

by wyatt (wyatt@teammooch.com) on May 08, 2001 - 02:44 PM
If there is one thing I knows and thats womens and Roscoe Griselda aint comin home to "Gods little Acre". Take her things and feed em to your hogs. Maybe you should get yourself a Sheep and a pair of velcro Chaps.Sheep houses could be the next big thing. Call some old dry cleaners maybe industrial king size warshers can house a sheep suitably.

by roscoe on May 13, 2001 - 07:54 PM
That Wyatt fellow just showed an ugly side. Sheep? NO!!! I've been thinking. If I'm going to win Griselda back , I'm going to have to win her emotions by writing stuff and sending stuff to her. Here goes...

Ode to Griselda

She Won't Come Back. No Matter How I Beg Her.
She Hates Me So Bad
She Burned Down The Trailer.
Those New Tires For The House Won't Fit Nothing Else.

They Were Round, Just The Thing.
Fitting Like Her Wedding Ring.
They Were Shiney And Nice But,
Now They're As Flat As My Hart.

She left me for some jerk. A swapmeet Picasso.
Who tattooed on her thigh, a picture
Our boozing Lhasa-Apso.
She took it with her but I'm glad,
that dog's a mean drunk anyway.

Now I Feel Lower Than My Junk Yard Wiener Dog.
Because My Sweehart's Run Away, With A Biker Gal Called Hog.
I'm So Sad And I'm So Blue
I Don't Know What To Do.
I Feel Lower Than a Junk Yard Wiener Dog.

by Anonymous on May 13, 2001 - 10:46 PM
Son, its hard to compete with swap meet Picasso types. Save your writings for a real woman who will love and respect you for the Warsher/ dawg haus acceptspurt that you is. Maybe the next used warsher trade show you can find your self a woman worthy of a man with your unique talents...Sorry about the sheep joke. I know a woman who might be just right for you, she is the famous Jesco Whites (The Dancing Outlaw) sister and although she is missing,maybe, just maybe you are the one who will find this charming woman. Best of luck and more inormation on her can be found on Jescoe (Jesse or Elvis) Whites "The Dancing Outlaw" website. Good luck and keep writing your poems and convertin your warshers. Wyatt

by Anonymous on Jun 06, 2001 - 04:13 AM
I just stripped my dish washer of its little slotted racks and discovered that it was ideal for staging miniture clamation plays that had story lines based around tropical rain storms and hot humid winds. My first production will be based upon the life of "Hurricane Gussy"! Could you lend me some clay,a dishwasher,a generator,a garden hose, a spigot,a handfull of sulfur and some very small coconuts?

by roscoe on Jun 07, 2001 - 02:58 AM
Staging play productions are you? Say Mister, are you that Mathew Broderic fellow who's married to Sara Jessica Parker? They've been talking about you on another part of this web site. Boy, she's a sweetie. She sure seems busy with that hit TV show. You must have a lot of time on your hands. I don't know about clay animation or the tools you'll need to get started. I do have an old front load whirlpool that I will let you have cheap. I don't have generators though I do have an old Ossa that I found crashed into a chicken coop once. . . I have no clue how it got there. I figure maybe we can hook the magnito to one of those cigarette lighter, plug-in and verters and see if we get enough juice to turn it over. As far as that other stuff, you'll have to round it up yourself. I'm not much for those Broadway productions. I find they're run by a bunch of hippies. I'll tell you one thing, if I find out you are a hippie, I'll put the dogs after you. Oh yeh Mister, its cash upfront no lending!

by roscoe on Jun 27, 2001 - 03:15 PM
The bozos running my small-cap mutual fund decided to stick with those Dot Com ventures even though they were bleeding like they had been through the slaughterhouse. They somehow didn't understand that if the president of the United States was an oil man, they should consider investing in petroleum. It doesn't matter the president wants to suck all the oil out from under Alaska and oil companies are gonna get fat. More power to them, I say. If the next generation X expects us to conserve and leave all the oil to them, they should wake up and smell the transmission fluid. They should get off their lazy backsides and invent a new energy source. If we conserve energy, they will just sit back and figure that there is plenty to spare. If they panic now, they will see it is necessary to be smarter and they will study harder in school.

To make along story short, the old retirement egg tanked . To try and catch up on the money situation, I've been out in the yard slashing prices on everything that I could see including all of the stuff that the landfill would not take. EVERYTHING MUST GO! I HACKED PRICES TO THE BARE WALLS! Even Two-Foot as a price tag. (keep in mind that he doesn't get around quick because he only has feet on the keddy-corners. That's why the neighborhood kids sometimes call him Wiggles or Roll-o. )

by Anonymous on Jun 29, 2001 - 12:32 AM
Dotcom kinda rhymes with Dotgone dont it?

by wyatt (wyatt@teammooch.com) on Jul 10, 2001 - 11:09 PM
New energy source ideas:1. Old Politicians
2.Young Politicians
3.Dead Politicians
4.Jerry Springers Guests
5.Lawyers
6.Myopic enviromentilists
7.Stock brokers
8.Financial Advisors
9.Old Growth Redwoods
10.Manatees
11.Old Cigarette packs from behind the couch
12.Firestone Tyres
13.Outdated Maps of Russia
14. Any and all instruction manuals
15. Your neighbors limbs which hang over your yard which by the way is your property!
16. Small stuff you dont need.
17. Small stuff your neighbor does not need.
18.Worthless refrigerators that have been converted into
dog houses that rats wouldn't even go into let alone mans best friend.
19. All loosing lottery tickets
20. Convert friction energy from scratch of lottery tickets into heat for the freezing Eskimos.

by charlie on Jul 11, 2001 - 09:22 AM
21 Joshies brain22 Mark fell down
23 Abe's girl friend
24 self tanning lotion
25 empty beer vessels

by wyatt (wyatt@teammooch.com) on Jul 11, 2001 - 07:09 PM
26,27,28 & 29. Charlies outsie belly button.

by roscoe on Jul 31, 2001 - 09:08 PM
My uncle always said "On starless nights , tires won't smoke when you burn them". I guess photosynthesis must have something to do with them smoking in the daylight. We've got plenty of them lying around now that all the SUVs have new ones. Now There is an energy source!

by roscoe on Jul 31, 2001 - 09:10 PM
My uncle always said "On starless nights , tires won't smoke when you burn them". I guess photosynthesis must have something to do with them smoking in the daylight. We've got plenty of them lying around now that all the SUVs have new ones. Now There is an energy source!

by roscoe on Jul 31, 2001 - 09:16 PM
Well the big inventory reduction sale is over and anything left has been pushed into the ravine. A bit of good luck though... I had an old Nordge prototype that I suspected was worth something. I kept a tarp over it special, to keep water out and the bird stuff off of it. Rather than letting it go to somebody real cheap, I decided to sell it on the Internet . Well , the bidding went nuts. I ended up selling to some computer fellow from Seattle, Washington (the state). You wouldn't believe by looking at it , but that washing machine was worth a bundle ! That's it folks , it's early retirement for me .

I've been sitting here for a few days wondering; what do I do with that G O B of money? I've always liked racing. It didn't matter, anything that had wheels would do. Big wheels, bicycles, motorcycles were all fun. Now, I get a bunch of cash and I want to go fast! My first incline... NASCAR!! Load your checkbook and buddies in a truck and go racing. Second, I figure do that gumball rally, just like the great actor Gary Busey. Then I figure, settle down and take it easy. I tell myself "Don't spend that money to fast ". There's a lot of this world I haven't seen yet and it's time I did. So I bought back that motorhome from Freak Show and turned to the horizon. I'm hitting the road. Tater, Lorileelee and I are off to find waves of amber grain, mountains majestic, and seas shining. Here we come, Michigan !

by wyatt (wyatt@teammooch.com) on Aug 01, 2001 - 12:04 AM
Worlds largest cherry pie was made in Michigan near that big lake in a
town who's name I cant recall, but dont miss it its the real deal!

dog house - A Roscoe History Part Two

2005-06-23T19:07:00.000-05:00

Long ago, on a distant bulletin board

by baker (google.com) on Apr 11, 2001 - 02:04 PM
Roscoe does not exist, like Santa Claus does not exist,like the tooth ferry, Paul Bunyan,the Yeti, Unicorns, Seamonsters, Ghosts and Mountain bikers who build their own trails. Give it up!

by roscoe on Apr 18, 2001 - 09:48 AM
Mr. Baker,

I have read your critique on the public bulletin board and I have always thought that criticism is OK if it is constructive . I must admit I don't care about unicorns or Mountain bikers so, I will have to give you that. You don't like Santa Claus, Paul Bunnyan, or the majestic Yeti . well, there's something plainly wrong about that. Possibly, you didn't get the right bicycle at Christmas. Maybe you don't like pancakes so big , that they must be served with shovels. I'll guess that you don't believe in UFOs either. when you disspell the Yeti , you attack its American cousin the mighty big foot.

I learned of the big foot and the study of cryptozoology in general while researching the humble honey badger. I thought the honey badger was only a legend perpetuated by our good friend wyatt. However, I soon learned it is very real. In my study of cryptozoology, I've learned that there is a very high concentration of big foot sightings in Ohio. It is strange times in which we live. Today, basketball players make millions of dollars selling shoes. Why should we believe that ? It is easy to be skeptical of things that we do not understand. But let me assure you that you shouldn't be blinded by things that you can't see.

I worked for a company that makes equipment for airports including military airports. We once had the opportunity to ship equipment to Nevada. Normally, a representative from our company would accompany the shipment and provide instruction on its operation. This time someone from the Air Force suggested they send their people to the plant for their training. We immediately guessed the shipment was destined for " Area 51 ". When the " captain" arrived, he denied everything concerning area 51 and of course told us that if he said anything , he would have to kill us. We laughed fearing him and someone asked " but seriously what happens there? " the captain replied " you'll sleep better not knowing what happens there . Besides , all of the UFOs have been moved to Wright Patterson field in Ohio. "

By now, Mr. Baker, I hope you see a pattern that is before you. Big foot, is living in Ohio and working as a UFO pilot. The reason you don't see big foot is likely because of the results of some diabolical reconstructive surgery and the reason you see no big footprints is because big foot is wearing shoes. Believe it if you want . Roscoe may be an enigma boxed in a conundrum, and wrapped in a riddle. Believe that if you want.

by Anonymous on Apr 18, 2001 - 03:20 PM
Roscoe I was born and lived near Wright and Patterson Airforce Base and let me assure you if you continue to conjure up such nonsense I will have you abducted..err I mean committed. You are a fine example of an all American "Crack Pot" but dont think that will protect you from the men in black. There are no Yetis, Paul Bunyan is not real and Bigfoot is just a gasoline chain that sells excellent fountain cokes that they let you pour yourself!
Area 51 is nothing more than a place the government tests embarrassing projects that dont work, they propagate the myth of UFO's to sell souvenirs and collect the tax revenue from yo yo's who have no business with money anyhow! What else is a desert good for? Other than riding dirt bikes in, and keeping "Crack Pot" environmentalists busy giving their money to protect areas they will never venture into, they see a PBS special and all of a sudden they panic and want to bar anyone but tumble weeds from visiting . So my friend Roscoe fetch your best tumble weed suit and lets go visit the desert and forget all about Wright and Patterson Air Force Base and area 51 or 2 or whatever that name was, just forget my friend, forget, lets talk about things a little more rooted in reality. Did I tell you I was going to win the Mooch Cup...

by roscoe on Apr 19, 2001 - 08:44 AM
To lump crackpots and environmentalists together is an insult to crackpots. A spotted turtle , minding its own business in the desert , gets squished by a big motorcycle. Freak out , certain that is the last turtle ever. When was the last time you drove down the highway and saw a turtle mashed on the center line. You don't see it that often, and the ones dumb enough to play in the the road should be put out of their misery. The smart turtles are playing among the rocks where they should be .

Better to be called a crackpot and to find your reality entertaining, than to live life in dilution . " Area 51 is nothing more than a place the government tests embarrassing projects that dont work,... " You say that with confidence. Almost, as if you have actually been there. It's one thing to say UFOs may exist. It is another, to say that you have driven one.

Yetis, UFOs , and big foot... urban legends to entertain and amuse around a campfire. The best urban legend yet must be " anonymous " winning the Mooch Cup.

by wyatt (wyatt@teammooch.com) on Apr 25, 2001 - 09:49 AM
Anonymous is going to win the th Mooch Cup of that you can be sure. Anonymous does apologize for dissing crack pots...sorry. Anonymous has driven a UFO and they don't handle anything like anonymous's KTM, but of course UFO's do not exist so forget that I mentioned piloting nothing. I dont know much about urban legends but that does remind me of the worlds best movie ever made and that would be "Urban Cowboy", wow! what a flick!!!
Your making anonymous nervous with all this area 51 talk, so lets talk about the brilliant performance of John Travolta in Urban Cowboy. Whats say?

by Anonymous on Apr 26, 2001 - 03:25 AM
I am from Thailand and I find all of this very offending! We have a big foot here, but we call him Feo Americano.

by wyatt (wyatt@teammooch.com) on Apr 25, 2001 - 09:51 AM
I know Roscoes phone # and it is for sale. Highest bidder gets to harrass him in real time.

by roscoe on Apr 30, 2001 - 07:55 AM
The telephone number is 555-364 -9274. That is, 555 DOG WASH . Our friends from Thailand will receive 5% off any purchase before Cinco de Mayo .

by Anonymous on Apr 30, 2001 - 08:57 AM
I know how you crackpots work, afer Cinco de Mayo, the sale will be extended until Cinco de Juneo...Then Cinco de Julyo, Cinco de Augusto etc... Anonyomous observer from Thailand.

by Anonymous on May 01, 2001 - 02:27 PM
who really is this roscoe and why do he wash dogs. are we to assume cleanliness before consumption or is this a mandrin quality for companionship beyond the call by which dogs are known?

by Anonymous on May 01, 2001 - 03:57 PM
My dog had what I thought was consumption but I followed an old mustard plaster recipe of my grandmas and by golly to this day ole barky is fit as a fiddle. Barky loves his Maytagavarna and I am sure you would to.Buy your dog one of Roscoe's reconditioned Washing machines/Motorcycle/Dog Houses and and expect the quality that has been associated with Roscoe Inc. since its Conception sometime in 1960. "Cause when you buy Roscoe, you buy what you get."

by Anonymous on May 02, 2001 - 12:08 PM
what in tarnation would sparky do with a motorcycle and a washing machine mister? you spoil your dog but not like i spoil mine.

by roscoe on May 02, 2001 - 12:24 PM
Ladies and gentlemen, a public-service announcement... Please do not put your pets into washing machines. Your pet will not enjoy being whirled about as if it were on a carnival ride. To not wash , agitate, spin, or tumble dry your pet in a machine. It seems anonymous is confused about dog houses made from old washing machines. He seems to think that they are meant to be used as a dog salon. In order to avoid further confusion , I've changed my phone number to 555-364-4287. That's 555-DOG HAUS .

WashDog house designs are deeply rooted in the tradition of the Bauhaus. Architects Meis van der Rohe, Walter Gropius, le Corbu formed a new art school that would integrate art and technology, combine the artisan and craftsman, and apply new ideas to architecture. Now, the practicality of a renovated washing machine is matched to the precision tooling of a fine motorcycle to shelter your beloved pup. And you can stack them .

by wyatt (wyatt@teammooch.com) on May 04, 2001 - 03:22 AM
Bauwowhouse? I prefer archtecture from the fast food discipline. Golden Archs, Big Boy,Stuckeys if you will etc.

by Anonymous on May 04, 2001 - 02:00 PM
i like pizza, treetops and dragon biscuits. to late for the public service announcement. old sparkies resting with the dingos

by wyatt (wyatt@teammooch.com) on May 05, 2001 - 03:21 AM
Dingo smingo, the hyena will bite your face off in your sleep! There is not a more loathsome creature in all of Africa, a single Hyena could take out a pack of Dingos before you could say,"Harley wont start".

by baker (google.com) on May 05, 2001 - 04:08 PM
sir
i appreciate your conjecture as to the most feriocus dog or land scavanger on the planet. it is a well known fact that the dingo was disseminated from aulstriala to the comoros islands via a percipitous swim made possible by their superior epithelium which wore thin by the time they reached africa and met their cousins the monkey. hyenas are nothing more than a worn down version of the dingo!

by Anonymous on May 07, 2001 - 02:48 AM
Let me get this straight. Dingos swam to Africa and became monkeys? or is it they swam to africa with a short lay over in the Comoros Islands and through the friction of all that swimming their "Epithelium" wore thin? I am confused was it the Hyena that swam from Africa to Australia. Hyenas are ancestors of Dingos who migrated ("disseminated") from Australia and then returned with Aborgines riding on their backs. Who then in turned killed the giant snakes, sloths and lizards some 40,000 years ago.
I think its in your best interest to stop the pedantic bull throw away your thesaurus and leave monkeys out of the whole mix. I beg of you for your own good, throw your thesaurus as far from your bathroom/computer room as your little white bony army will throw. Then lean over and drop it into the toliet and flush.

by roscoe on May 07, 2001 - 01:28 PM
i have a nice Didjeridoo!

by baker (google.com) on May 07, 2001 - 03:07 PM
all i am trying to say is dingos good hyenas bad except when there eating things they shouldnut

by Anonymous on May 07, 2001 - 04:00 PM
Me arse! You talk crazy! I go bed now.

by baker (google.com) on May 08, 2001 - 03:20 PM
dear wyatt, i must say i was very impressed and gratefull to be a part of your fabulous photo shoot for trail rider magazine. the somatic nature of the shoot was outstanding. if anyone would like sneak peaks please email me as pictures are available.

by Anonymous on May 09, 2001 - 03:45 PM
The Oxford English Dictionary defines Somatic as "Of or pertaining to
the (or a) body; bodily, corporeal, physical". In other words we took some pictures of some girls who were cute and had nice bodies.They were next to my bike and probably would be offended if they were mentioned in the same sentence as "corporeal".

by wyatt (wyatt@teammooch.com) on May 18, 2001 - 05:35 AM
Rosoce help me out on this. Are Dingos superior to Hyenas or are Hyenas as I suspect the superior to Dingos. Also with your live stock experience would it be possible to breed my Emu to my Hyena and come up with a new hybrid and possibly a commercial meat sourch that lives on carrion and frightens away prowlers. Your thoughts please.

by roscoe on May 19, 2001 - 12:02 PM
I don't know about hyenas or dingos . I do know dingos are held responsible for eating Merrill Streep's baby. I also know that was one funny hyena on the cartoon with Libby the Lion.

How should I know what happens when you breed an Emu with an hyena? I doubt you'll realize the result you hope to find. Recently, it was discovered human genetics are much less complicated than first expected. This is good in that future developments in medical procedures can benefit humans and provide remedies or even cures to debilitating illnesses. It is bad that we as humans can no longer consider ourselves superior in the animal world. The animal world will no longer tolerate our arrogance. You are cooking a Genetic stew which can only cause problems. A feathery quadra-ped , 6 ft. tall with fangs and a blood lust may find us cowering or willing to offer our young as sacrifices. More likely, you will find a very large ostrich-like , hairy bird that laughs at its own poop jokes.

by Anonymous on May 19, 2001 - 05:27 PM
I laugh now... Just like Marilyn Monroe suggesting to the Nobel Prize winner if they were to mate, "imagine"? the idea of her looks and his smarts and he suggested that it could be his looks and her smarts...I go bed now...
We were born slimy,bloody and screaming.Then we wash, grow old, die and stop screaming.

When you die, your finger nails and hair continue to grow but your phone calls seem to taper off....So whats wrong with laughing at ones own poop jokes?

by Anonymous on May 20, 2001 - 09:47 AM
Roscoe I have long respected your expertise in animal husbandry and also your skill as a warshing machine artist, however I am going ahead with my plan of mating my Emu to my Hyena it will be called a enamu. I weighed your arguments and decided that I was willing to take the risk. Mass extinctions being the norm in this days society, I take it upon myself to repopulate the world with new unusual hybrids of animals. The enamu is just the begining my friend, your help is invited, please join me in creating animals and plants that may someday help us cure cancer or even tourettes syndrome.Disease's which are now hopeless to even try to spell could be treated from what we learn from our new breeds of plants and animals. Cat/Cow...Large mouth Bass/ Turnip...Kyte/Tapir...Onion/Banana and on and on and etc. Join me and help save humanity or ignore me and watch me save humanity, the choice is up to you.

by roscoe on May 21, 2001 - 10:53 AM
Anonymous, it seems you are living on the Island of Dr. Moreau . Not the entertaining one written by H. G. Wells, or the fun one portrayed in the movie produced in 1933. You are playing in the bad one starring Marlin Brando . Well, if you are Marlin Brando , I'll be Val Kilmer (hello ladies) . So, here it goes tubby ...

The Cat/Cow- I envision a bovine/feline mixture happily chasing a two foot diameter ball of twine and playfully batting at butterflies. I also see this fuzzy beast cleaning itself on the living room carpet and coughing up fur balls the size of your head.

The large mouth bass/Turnip -the large mouth bass is a good eat . Turnips are not. Don't mess with a good thing.

The Kyte/Tapir -the unfortunate Tapir is burdened by dragging tinder appendages upon the ground. Don't wish this on the Kyte .

The onion/banana-the Revolutionary Banonion may show promise . Just think of ordering the Banonion daiquiri at 2:45 a.m. for that sexy barfly who insists dragon breath punches her button .

If you want , I'll give you "Freak Show" Roy's cellphone number and maybe he can find a spot for you in his next tour . Good luck Doc . Good luck humanity. The horror... The horror .....

by Anonymous on May 26, 2001 - 07:39 AM
"The Heart of Darkness" is the Joesph Conrad Novel that the particular Marlon Brando movie you are refering to is based upon.With that I would ask that you kindly give me "Freak Show Roys" # so I can "make him an offer he cant refuse". I have just combined an electric eel with a porupine for my extreme petting zoo that Freak Show and myself could probably make a success. I am currently trying to combine a Wolverine with the common tapeworm for what purpose I dont know, just idle curiousity I suppose. Keep me posted
Tuan Wyatt

by roscoe on Jun 01, 2001 - 03:54 PM
I told Freak Show Roy about your new business venture and he grew as giddy as a schoolboy telling his first " pull my finger " joke. He shined, babbling about how nature provides animals with defense mechanisms and elaborated on the laws of natural selection. He told of the duck billed platypus sporting poisonous spurs on its back legs... The only mammal to own them. He praised the Annaconda for its many teeth and tenacity. I tell you Anonymous, you have made the man happier than he has been in years.

He showed me sketches of hybrid animals bred for the very purpose of an extreme petting zoo. He said those candy fed, softies can have their X-sports like helicopter skiing and street luge. "Stick their arm in a cage with a 30 lb. HARMADILLO and listen to them whine like babies." He said the BUNNIGATOR will not only attract people to the petting zoo, it also has potential in the fashion industry. Apparently its furry back and scaled belly have great economic value. The CARNIMOLE is for the most extreme zoo patron. It not only tunnels through your yard but also under your skin.

So Anonymous, Freak Show is more than interested in your business venture but let me tell you, don't let the old guy down. If he gets mad at you, things can get very weird.

by Anonymous on Jun 04, 2001 - 10:19 PM
Roscoe, I met Side Show recently and sneaked a piece of his DNA off a cue tip I had slipped into is jaw hole under the pretence that I was checking for "The Rabies".I have combined his DNA with Sarah Jessica Parkers and now I think we have the potential for a new cable hit which we will call "Sex in the side show" poor Matthew Broderick will just have to look on and pretend he enjoys Broadway.You of course understand sideshow is not to hear a word of my plan/ploy, and if Broderick axes tell him the stage is where real actors live and he is acting on the edge and every pansie in stage thinks he is just grand, in fact fabulous!

Posted under duress...JW

PS. Axe Skip B next time you see him to have the spell check checked causein I thinken I spele badlee rong.

by roscoe on Jun 05, 2001 - 05:53 PM
Last night I woke up a bit hungry so I decided to fix something to eat. I needed to find the handle for the skillet so I went to the garage . . . arr um, research and development lab to find my vise grips. Not exactly to my surprise, I found Freak Show passed out on the floor and Tater was, well drunk as a monkey. I tried waking Freak, but he would only roll over and mutter something about new tattoos. He finally sat up against the bar and sloppily explained how by gaining weight he would make more room on his body for a few new tattoos. The idea seemed plausible except for the fact that some time during the night Freak Show apparently fell into the blender while mixing banana liquor drinks.

It's hard to take a man serious when he has a kitchen appliance entangled in his beard and a 200 pound chimpanzee is using the electrical cord as a jump rope. I found my bacon tongs and went back inside the house leaving them hugging each other and singing as drunk men sometimes do.

Wyatt, you seem a lot smarter about this gene splicing thanI know about. I have one question for you. Will alcohol have any effect on the DNA sample? My fear is that if you obtained DNA while Freak was passed out, Sara Jessica Parker will be very disappointed with the results. In years to come I envision a young woman who is as cute as a button but has a very mean temper . . . say, Sharon Stone . I know there is a direct correlation between the use of alcohol and being abducted by alien UFOs.

by Anonymous on Jun 05, 2001 - 09:03 PM
Scoe, I do know that studies have been conducted and that if you are under the influence of alcohol there is no more of a chance that you will be abducted by aliens than if you were sober as a Preacher/Judge, with his hands cuffed behind his back on Sunday with his mouth sewn shut...However if you happen to drive a pickup truck and have alcohol in your bloodstream then chances are you will be abducted,probed and released near an artistic dance club, and much to your wifes surprise the aliens will have robbed you of every dollar bill you had.
PS: Those were my bacon tongs and could you please return my stainless steel bacon tray....
What does this have to do with motorcycles and a motorcycle theme website? Well I was abducted once't while riding a motorcycle near an artistic dance club.

by roscoe on Jun 06, 2001 - 08:01 PM
I can't believe it! Smash Broadway, hit sensation, Mathew Broderic just bought a front load dishwasher and an Ossa ! Said his wife's been working steady and he had some time to finish up some projects. He said he wanted to make clay figurines and put on stage plays. I guess he's gonna use the heating element to kiln dry those. He seemed a bit upset. I guess he must of heard the rumor about his wife taking up with a carnival man. That's enough to put anybody in the dumps. I invited him to an artistic dance club to cheer him up but he didn't seem interested. He must be worried about alien abductions too.

by Anonymous on Jun 15, 2001 - 10:49 PM
As well he should, the little twerp. Bet the little twit couldnt pull a fish hook out of his own cheek!Twit, Idiot, bozo and hillbilly is all I has to say bout the 'Hollywood hotshot"!...I go bed now.

by roscoe on Jun 27, 2001 - 07:27 AM
The other night I met a lady who is really neat. I ran into her at one of the old neighborhood watering holes. There she was, dressed in dark corduroy pants, a "born to ride" tube top, and a bandanna. Well, those sophisticated types have always taken me. Finally worked up the courage to by her a tequila shooter. When I offered the drink to her, she turned around and with the extra long cigarette cradled in her warm smile she said, " sure thing cowboy but let me go to the can first ". I swear black rooted, blond haired women are hot! While she was gone, I sat there wondering what she was like. So I did what most anybody would do, I started going through her purse. She had the typical stuff. But when I got to that little purse that holds her cigarettes, I couldn't believe it; she had the tour schedule for the MARSHAL TUCKER BAND! (They are at Lincoln Park Speedway on July 1st in Putnamville, Indiana) I couldn't believe I was talking to somebody that sophisticated. it's crazy I know , but a gal like that could make me forget about Griselda .

by roscoe on Jun 27, 2001 - 09:24 AM
I knew there would be a bunch of questions that I should ask her if I was going to figure her out. Most things you can learn about a person by what they say or how they act. You can many times by discussion or even argument find out what it person is like. If she can't get past some of the things you do or say, the problem can be resolved by argument or in court. Even then, some arguments are too big to settle in court. After a lot of study, it comes down to three important questions a couple should ask each other. If I asked her, She would get spooked and run off or answer them and clear the air. Why spend months or years getting to know a person if they're gonna bushwhack you behind your back.

One. Are you now or have you been in an hmo, hetero, or bi-curious relationship that will make me mad later on?

Two. Have you ever been a ho or acted in a porno for money?

Three , and most important. Are you now, or have you ever been a guy?

If the answers to these questions can terminate a relationship, going on the Jerry Springer show is the only way to help you past these obstacles . There is a very long line . Well, I popped the questions and she passed the Jerry Springer test by saying " heck no" to all three. She's perfect!

by Anonymous on Jun 28, 2001 - 05:38 PM
All I can say Roscoe is "God Bless". and does she have any sisters and is her mother single or willin?

by wyatt (wyatt@teammooch.com) on Jul 10, 2001 - 03:46 PM
Long time ago I knew a woman like the one Roscoe speaks of so passionatly. She had many braids in her hair aunt Helen tied and she liked talking about daddy. "Daddy can level a trailer bedder than any man North or West of the New River". " Daddy never borrowed my smokes without buying me a whole new pack later". " Daddy wouldnt had done that lest he was drunk, Daddy good people". I loved this woman but I never did get along with her"Daddy" so she's gone and she took my heart with her and I think she gave it to her Daddy to throw at the hogs.
My heart grew back and now I only have a dog, an old "Steens" mini bike a few dollars to throw to the bums and another dog that I dont tell many people about, I dont know why.
Roscoe: May your wings of desire find a romantic updraft as warm and comforting as a Grandfathers fart.

by roscoe on Jul 31, 2001 - 02:21 PM
Lorileelee ... passed the Jerry Springer quizz with flying colors. I cashed in the inventory and now have enough money to see the world. Life is looking pretty good. We packed up the motorhome and are nearly ready to hit the road. It has a neat camouflage paint job . I extended the rear bumper and added a couple of pieces of channel. By using some old seat belts, I am able to tie the KTM and Bultaco on back in a matter of minutes. Then, I stretch military cargo netting from the bumper, up and over the back of the camper so Tater can have some place to play. It's easy, we just slide open the back window and he climbs out. The only problem is his wrestling with the rooftop air conditioner (you know what I mean? ). Sometimes he grabs overhead power lines and shorts everything to the camper. it blows his fur up like a scared cat.

We're headed to Buchanan and other parts of Michigan to see what is going on. I'll be checking in now and then.

by wyatt (wyatt@teammooch.com) on Jul 31, 2001 - 05:12 PM
Be sure to check out Cross Village it's a bit glitzy but does have the "Legs Inn" which was founded and furnished by a genuine foreigner! A not miss on the Triple Mooch tourism scale!

Mars Rovers

2005-06-18T20:16:00.000-05:00

The Spirit and Opportunity Mars Rovers sent information that scientists may study for years. When Spirit shut down unexpectedly, NASA reported that trashing files and rebooting Spirit’s computer fixed the glitch. What really happened to Spirit we civilians won’t know. If they use common sense the fact that Spirit quit working for no apparent reason should tell the Super Nerds something. Unfortunately, a gross misinterpretation of the presented data may camouflage the truth.

What do we know?

Third kind “Close Encounters” or personal experiences take place in the middle of nowhere. They happen at night and are seen by few witnesses.

Visiting Aliens (like the US military) bring flashy, heavy equipment. To paralyze test subjects with fear, most UFOs dwarf our Earth pick-up trucks and can be “bigger than a football field”.

Alien probes make humans nervous.

What have we done?

We landed in the middle of nowhere, in broad daylight.

We sent something bigger than a breadbox with the power of a common palm size computer.

Our probes photograph a rock filled landscape and look for water.

What have we learned?

We intelligent life forms have little experience as cosmic tourists. We’re not good aliens. Because the best of our scientific smarty-pants managed to get the Spirit up there, the general public assumes that it will find the smartest Martians waiting to greet it. Yes, we landed in the middle of nowhere like the professionals but, we landed something that looks like a child’s toy. An intimidating bunny rabbit frolics in the sun and scratches at rocks.

If a Mars Rover landed here to be discovered by a pair of drunken fishermen, odds are they would “capture it to make a million”. The thought of running never enters the picture as the terror machine happily pops and zings at a pile of dirt. Native inhabitants would likely grab a stick or rock and sneak up BEHIND it. Simply bash the innocuous toaster in the head and collect the prize money.

Greed and the self-preservation instinct may be universal. Suppose a Martian Mullet-head threw rocks at Spirit to knock it off line . . . Its nature that drives a life form to cash in Las Vegas Style.