Ducking the Valentine’s Day Bullet...

The Annual St. Valentine’s Day Turkey Shoot is about to commence, with millions of hapless men scrambling to buy tokens of their love for women. Nothing confounds the average American male more than the phrase “a truly, romantic, original gift.” One reason for this is the concept of “romance” differs so radically between men and women. To a man, true romance is watching the moon rise, while getting a trombone solo from a hot squeeze, in a pick-up truck, after beer and pizza at the local gin mill. This was what they dreamed about when they were 17-years-old, and generally the strongest selling point of their first wife. (That bubble burst about twenty seconds after the wedding cake was cut.)

The second reason is that the phrase “a truly romantic, original gift” seldom occurs in a sentence ending with “cheaper than a decent pair of motorcycle gloves.” The current economic downturn has placed many men in the unnatural position of having to weigh the joys of getting a trombone solo against the thrill of treating themselves to a new motorcycle helmet, a riding jacket, or even the more mundane self-gifting of an annual bike service.

What the staggering majority of gentle, beautiful, sensitive women really want for Valentine’s Day (or a birthday or an anniversary) is a token of affection that reflects forethought, consideration, and the enduring passion of the soul. (This rules out an engraved, chrome air filter-cover that fits your Harley.)They want something that transcends the mundane. Regrettably, you can squeeze any six guys and not get enough forethought, consideration, and enduring passion to fill a shot glass.

This is where Twisted Roads steps in.

Our panel of gift experts have been getting laid for years by feigning sincerity, by exchanging mysteriously soupy looks, and by presenting gifts that reek of originality. Each of our gift recommendations is the work of an artist, unique in its own regard, and designed to appeal to the soul of a woman. Purchasing one, or a combination of these gift recommendations, is virtually guaranteed to raise the stock of any guy looking to be regarded as “something special” in a world of romantic mediocrity.

How can a man put a price on romance? The answer is “easily.” Yet these Valentines Day gifts are priced to appeal to a man’s heart as well. Each has been selected for quality, availability, and emotional impact. And ordering these online will eliminate the mad scramble endured by so many other hopeless souls, locked in a desperate search for romantic originality during the final hours of February 14th.

The Ultimate Original Alternative
To The Sappy Store-Bought Card...
A Love Letter Written By A Professional Writer!

Nothing turns a woman’s heart into into Silly Putty like a love letter written by a man who understands passion. Yet nothing is harder for the average man to write. Well-intentioned men try to put their passion into words, but end up spewing tired metaphors for a woman’s eyes, thread-bare synonyms for love, and thinly-veiled references to boudoir embraces that sound suspiciously self-serving. And yet, the assembly-line quality of store-bought cards can be much worse.

Jack Riepe is a professional writer who has been melting the iron-clad hearts of the world’s toughest women for years. A man of average looks and less than average intellect, he plays his keyboard like Cupid’s violin. His first wife was a newspaper reporter, who used to slam him in the headlines. His second wife was a KGB poisoner and he is still alive. His third enduring love was a rodeo rider from Texas, who once asked, “How do you write this stuff?” She would later refer to his love letters as “the tail of the rattler.”)

Let Jack Riepe write a love letter for your special Valentine.

Each order (domestic US) will be accompanied by an interview (call or by internet) to get a few critical details required to generate a two-paragraph letter (ten to twelve full lines, or more). Orders from outside the US will be detailed solely by internet. Each letter will be printed in script, on quality paper and mailed in a reinforced envelope. Clients ordering these letters may present them in two ways:

A) As a letter they themselves wrote, bearing their signature.
B) As a letter they commissioned, complete with a certificate of authenticity. (How many guys would hire a writer to listen to them describe the manner in which they adore their wives or lovers, so they could have it stated in a really unique way? This is the height of originality.)

Each letter is guaranteed to be absolutely unique, one-of-a kind, and totally confidential. Letters are available from men to women, women to men, and same sex. (What the hell? Love is love.) Valentines come mild, spicy, or vague (for anonymous applications). No porn. No poetry either, sorry.

The cost of each Valentine/love letter is $18.00, plus $2 shipping and handling.

To order, send your name, address and telephone number to jack.riepe@gmail.com
Put “Valentines Day Love Letter Order -- Rush” in the subject line. Please include a good time to call. The interview process takes about 5 minutes. (No phone number automatically means you’ll get the interview questions via e-mail, which adds time.) You should assume it will take two full days to process each order. Unless a client is willing to accept text by internet (to print out themselves), the cut-off date for ordering one of these Valentine/Letters is February 10th, 2012. (The cost is the same, minus the S&H.)

Anyone ordering a copy of “Politically Correct Cigar Smoking For Social Terrorists” as a Valentine’s Day gift — either for themselves or others — is entitled to receive a Valentine/Love Letter included in the $30 price (plus $5 S&H). Follow the same ordering instructions as above, but place the phase “Book Order Valentine -- Rush” in the subject line.

The Ultimate Valentine’s Day Confection...
The Power of Chocolate And
The Taste That Drives Women Crazy!

Nothing is more closely associated with Valentine’s Day than those huge, red, heart-shaped boxes of chocolates. Yet sometimes you are paying more for the box than the contents. There is a link between chocolate and passion dating back to the ancient Mayas, who regarded it as an aphrodisiac. But anyone relying on boxed chocolates to get the fires of the heart roaring should consider Big Jim’s “Riotously Delicious” Chocolate Chip Cookies as their first shot. There is so much of the rich passion stuff in the chocolate chips used in Big Jim’s cookies, it is rumored that the cocoa beans must be picked by eunuchs.

Big Jim stands about 6’7” and no cookie was big enough, nor rich enough to satisfy his tastes... So he crafted his own. Each of the five varieties (Chocolate Chip, Purely Pecan, Chocolate Chip and Pecan, Chocolate Chip & Peanut Butter Chip, and Chocolate Chip & Peanut Butter Chip & Pecan) is an irregularly shaped pleasure puck of cookie perfection. (A family of five* could live on one cookie for a week, but that would be torture with an open box in the house.) Technically speaking, one cookie is about as satisfying a full slice of pie. Professional motorcycle racers - like Chris Carr - have enjoyed Big Jim’s cookies in the pits for years. (They even made it into a YouTube clip at one track!)

All cookie varieties are $14.95 a dozen... (Minimum 2 dozen order west of the Mississippi or south of the Mason-Dixon line.) Anyone ordering one dozen will be immediately sorry they didn’t order two. No Valentine’s Day orders can be guaranteed after February 10, 2012. All cookie orders are filled on demand. (Did we mention these were unique gifts that smacked of originality? When was the last time you got a candy heart that was made to order?)
* The family “of five” cited in the text is a family of Meercats.


Click here for Big Jim’s “Riotously Delicious” Chocolate Chip Cookies.

One Of The Most Original Romantic Gifts Ever...
An Enduring Valentine In A Work of Art!

Sid Dickens’ Memory Blocks (tiles) are a highly collectable series of exquisite wall art that strike the perfect balance of color, expression, and emotion. Each tile not only captures the passion of the artist, but forever holds the passion of the moment, be it an anniversary, a holiday, a birthday, or St. Valentine’s Day. The subject of the tiles vary, spanning birds, flowers, elements of sculpture, Roman numerals and letters. Some are mesmerizing details from paintings, while others in the collection have the characteristics of a bas relief.

The detail and quality of these tiles is astounding, with the majority retaining an “Old World” theme in both the artwork and the coloring. The designs are offered briefly, only to have the masters broken, guaranteeing that a limited number of each piece will remain in circulation. Sid Dickens Memory Blocks are made from “environmentally friendly” materials, and priced around $80 for current designs. (This is less than what you would pay for roses.)

While they can be ordered online, the true beauty of these tiles must be experienced in person. For my readers in the southeastern part of Pennsylvania, the best place to find a broad selection of Sid Dickens Memory Blocks is at Perennial Interiors (formerly Perennial Pleasures of Exton, Pa), at the Paoli Design Center, 1604 East Lancaster Avenue, Paoli, Pa, 19301-1506. The resident expert, Martha Naylor, can steer you to the most current Sid Dickens acquisitions (which include four separate heart designs) or show you some of the older designs with immediate collector value. She can be reached at 484-318-8376. To find then online, click here.

And trust me, they way they gift wrap these things at Perennial Interiors even the unopened box is special.

Want To Celebrate Your Love In A Hundred Years...
Give The Floral Arrangement That Lasts Forever!

Do you have the kind of romance that will endure for the ages? Then plant a tree... In your kitchen, family room, or living room. Bonsai trees have been known to live more than 200 years, with some species providing full-sized blooms on miniature, twisted trunks, three generations after the original lovers moved into oblivion.

There are two ways to present a Bonsai tree for Valentine’s Day, and Waterloo Gardens of Chester County, Pa is an expert at both. The first is to buy a fully established Bansai well advanced in the process of becoming a miniature tree. These make delightful gifts, in little ornate pots, with gnarly roots covered with soft green moss. And they run from $75 to the sky is limit, based on the age of the tree. The second way is to meet with a Waterloo Gardens associate and plant your Bonsai tree — together. You and your Honey can get your hands dirty — in the clean way — introducing a tiny tree to pure romance.

Need a bigger splash than a tree? Waterloo Gardens has a great selection of orchids too. Or get a miniature garden constructed in an oversized brandy snifter.

Waterloo Gardens has one of the best gift shops, with incredible choices (from exquisite silver jewelry to cloisonne boxes). They have two stores, one in Exton, Pa, and one in Devon, Pa. The Exton shop is vast, at 200 North Whitford Road, Exton, Pa 19341. Reach the Exton store at 610-363-0800. Find them on-line by clicking here.


©Copyright Jack Riepe 2012

Dispatches From The Front...

There are letters from allegedly living Twisted Roads readers. The Twisted Roads editorial staff will entertain questions from serious bikers regarding advanced riding technique, mechanical issues, rider safety, relationship building, how to break up with a woman (while tapping her sister on the way out the door), how elected officials get such big heads through such tight assholes, and which comes first: the pothole or the $900 bill to replace the wheel?

We will attempt to effect resolution for some readers with substantial bribes of Big Jim’s Chocolate Chip cookies — at our discretion. Don’t even think of hinting that you should get a box, unless you look like the woman in the first letter and include a picture.

The Publisher....



Dear Twisted Roads:

I am getting married in a couple of weeks to a woman who I met on a motorcycle run last summer. We are both a little nervous as this is an “inter-racial” relationship. (She rides a Harley and I ride a Vespa.) First there is the question of the blood test. I asked her about it and got a bone-chilling look. Then she pulled a Buck knife out of her boot and sliced her own palm, asking, “Do I pass?”

I really didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded.

Do you know if during the wedding ceremony the minister still asks if there is anyone present who objects to this marriage “to speak up now or forever hold their peace?” I jokingly mentioned that my mother might object. My fiance just laughed and said, “Not if she’s tied to a tree with a dead rat in her mouth.”

It’s not that I’m getting cold feet, but we were meeting with the caterer to finalize a few reception arrangements, when the gentleman asked, “What sort of napkins would you like?”

My fiance tested 20 of them by blowing her nose in each one, finally choosing a roll of paper towels as “best.” When asked if she wanted our initials printed on them, she replied only “FU,” in the dead center of each one.

She is stunningly beautiful, with a seamless tan, a few hidden tattoos (from the Kama Sutra), and likes to walk around the house naked. She has the skill of a gourmet cook and occasionally serves paté that she has created from all natural ingredients, using her flat stomach as a platter. When it comes to matters of the bedroom, she does things that would embarrass a farm animal.

Yesterday, I was moving some of her stuff into the bedroom, when I came across a strange red metal box marked, “Snap-On Tools.” I immediately suspected some higher level of sexual perversion, so I called her on it.

She was topless as usual, but I noticed a slight blush of embarrassment coloring her perfect nipples.

She bit her lower lip in hesitation, then said, “Don’t open it.”

I did.

It was filled with the strangest tools I have ever seen, including a wrench like a dental pick, complete with a series of paper-thin shims.

“What are these?” I demanded.

She started to sob, and replied: “When I get really hot and sexually uncontrollable, I have a mad desire to service German motorcycles.”

I can’t believe she kept this hidden from me. If a woman will hide secrets like this in the bedroom, what else will she conceal? I think it would be wise to postpone the wedding at the very least. My riding club — The Really Hard Guys Scooter Squadron — tells me I’d be much better off finding a woman from my “own” Vespa-riding kind. What do you think?

Sincerely,
Sylvester T. Simons, III
Accountant To The Pet Grooming Profession


Dear Sylvester T. Simons, III:

Your riding club is undoubtedly correct. A woman like this is thoroughly unpredictable, and could go off the deep end in the blink of an eye. Just imagine how mortified you’d be at the next national Vespa Week (in Sturgeon, South Dakota), if she started walking around topless among the pup tents and bingo games! Worse, she could start doing stuff like this now even as you try to do the decent thing and unceremoniously dump her.

I have never left a reader in the lurch and I’ll de damned if I’ll start today. I’ll marry her, giving you a chance to escape on your Vespa. I’ll do the best I can to distract her over the next six or eight months, allowing you to get as far away as you can at 36 miles per hour.

Don’t waste time, however. Bring her over here right now.

Fondest regards,
The Publisher


Dear Twisted Roads:

I have been a devoted reader of your blog for two years and go over each story several times, sometimes taking notes. You constantly reference a handful of guys as your riding buddies, and allude to a much larger cadre of moto-acquaintances as the Mac-Pac, a riding club with a preoccupation for BMW motorcycles that borders on sexual deviance.

Your description of these guys, for the exception of a Ducati jockey and an MV Agusta enthusiast, would lead your readers to believe they are all cool, accomplished riders, capable of getting a laugh from the guys and a smile from the ladies at the drop of a hat. Yet it has been my experience that a staggering majority of BMW riders are unbelievable douches, who leave 8 percent tips on the counter, sleep with a GPS under their pillows, and who wear full ATFGATFT (All The Fucking Gear All The Fucking Time) — even when taking a piss. (You have to really wonder about a guy who takes a leak wearing ballistic gloves.)

How do you explain the discrepancy between your perception of BMW riders and mine?

Sincerely,
Mavis LeBustier
The Waitress At That Shithole Where You Guys Meet For Breakfast


Dear Mavis:

The mayor of a southern town hosting a gathering of BMW GS riders once said “These guys arrive with one undershirt and a $10 dollar bill. Then they stay a week, changing neither one.” That cannot be denied. I have seen several GS riders, en route to remote and desolate destinations on the far side of Canada, stop just long enough to chew the bark on young birch trees. They get this way from making BMW bike payments and from occasionally buying spare parts. These transactions can force a man to live on $3.80 a week, all that is left from a $4,000 weekly pay check.

Sleeping with the GPS under the pillow becomes a reflex action for many BMW riders on weekend runs where each day begins with the tradition of “2,000 miles before breakfast.”

Many BMW riders wear full protective gear when they piss because they are doing so at 90 miles per hour, while standing on the seat, with the most important tool on the bike in their hand. Naturally, they are wearing riding gloves. This practice, taught by most BMW clubs as a rite of initiation, can save up to 28 minutes a day. This is a significant economy of riding time as the average BMW Saturday afternoon run is the distance between Chicago and Tahiti. Things are more difficult for women, who must drop their pants. Many feel shy about this if they do not have a perfect tan on their butt, or a coiffed squirrel.

Now I do not mean to imply that the Mac-Pac does not have its share of douches. There are exactly six, and they always sit together at breakfast. Just look to see who is always sitting together to find them. You can confirm your sighting by asking them, “What is the best oil for my bike?”

The person who responds with, “The absolute best oil to use...,” is the head douche.

Sincerely,
The Publisher



Dear Twisted Roads:

I have been a mental health professional serving the needs of the maniacally insane for over 25 years. Even a casual reading of remarks left on a previous blog episode, allegedly by “SnowQueen,” describing the publisher of this blog — Jack Riepe — as good looking, stimulating, and sensual, would lead anyone to believe there is a woman in basement someplace, wearing a ski mask while trying to start a chainsaw.

Now this may seem like a nice diversion for a few sentimental readers, but things are likely to change quickly when the door of the Twisted Roads office is sliced into sawdust by an infuriated “SnowQueen” looking for justice. And from what I can tell, she may certainly deserve it. Forcing a gentle beauty to ride pillion on what amounts to an outboard motor (1975 Kawasaki H2) with two tires is nothing less than the height of male hubris. In fact, seven southern states still have laws against this. Adding insult to injury was the fact this “bike” was painted in a shade of reddish purple that occurs only in bad science fiction.

In a more perfect world, real men would hold Riepe down while the SnowQueen diced him into lizard chum. The only thing saving Riepe’s life right now might be that most chainsaw killers neglect small engine maintenance in the winter. Chances are the plug needs replacing, the oil and gas have probably separated, and the chain itself is need of lubrication. Since this blog so frequently dwells in the land of the extinct two-stroke street bike, I think it is only fair that one or two articles on two-stroke engine maintenance appear, regardless of the danger to its author and publisher.

Sincerely,
Dr. Albert Hissingaz
Director
Wilmington Institute, Wilmington, NY


Dear Dr. Hissingaz:

If I had a dime for every woman who tried to kill me, I could afford to donate another book to the Wilmington Institute’s extensive research library, bringing its total up to 23. Woman have tried to shoot me... Poison me... And marry me to death. Things got so bad in one of my marriages that the dog would no longer take scraps from my side of the table. My neighbor would cover his ears and close his eyes every time I started the car. One wife even ripped my soul out and held it in her hand while crows pecked at it. (The soul of a moto-blog writer is often confused with a huge testicle.) And still, I have endured.

Though the SnowQueen has once again slipped into oblivion, I sent a box of Big Jim’s “Riotously Delicious” Chocolate Chip Cookies to her last known address. She’ll have to put the chainsaw down to eat even one... And with that first bite (the culinary personification of the battered baby seal look), I will be saved.

Thank you for your concern...
The Publisher


Dear Twisted Roads:

Moved by one of Jack Riepe’s weekly appeals to buy one of his current books (Politically Correct Cigar Smoking For Social Terrorists), I ordered a copy provided it was personally autographed and inscribed “with a highly motivational” text. I followed the complex ordering instructions and paid in South African Krugerrands as requested. While the book itself lived up to expectation (with stories curing baldness, removing crabgrass, and promoting marital harmony), the personal inscription was illegible. I hired an Egyptologist to transcribe the hieroglyphics scrawled on the front — to no avail.

This expert concluded that this was either data from the Dead Sea scrolls or a horoscope for the missing 2000 years from the Mayan calendar. On a bet, I had a Seeing Eye Dog sniff it. The animal gave it a good going over, then lifted its leg on chapters 6 through 10. Can I send a picture of this page to the Twisted Roads editorial staff for a translation? Otherwise, may I suggest Riepe train a chimp to autograph books? Then again, if he could train a chimp to autograph them, he could probably train a primate to get this blog out on time as well.

Sincerely,
Colin C.
Fort Worth, Texas


Dear Colin C:

Your correspondence — and that of every Twisted Roads reader — is important to us, which is why we passed it on to the Director of Marketing, which is the code we use around here for “Legal.” The last time we saw the Director of Marketing, he was sniffing the seat of a motorcycle last ridden by a fashion model in a lingerie ad. You may not be aware of this, but Jack Riepe has a medical condition that causes him to brush his teeth with gin, and to drink bottles of Woolite® from brown paper bags. He autographs books from his work station, which is on the curb of a Cape May, NJ street corner. Please accept a box of Big Jim’s Riotiously Delicious Chocolate Chip cookies for your trouble. A box will be sent to you shortly. (All of Big Jim’s Riotiously Delicious Chocolate Chip cookies are sold by the box. Some boxes may appear to be half eaten, like the one you’re getting. Please be advised that this is an optical illusion. You did not get the open box that was on Riepe’s desk.)

Sincerely,
Pauley “Fitz” Tooley
TW Marketing Director


The "Dispatches From The Front" section of Twisted Roads considers any and all legitimate letters from readers who are bikers. Please address your letters to "jack.riepe@gmail.com, placing the phrase "Dispatches From The Front" in the subject line. Selected letters will receive "promotional awareness" tokens at our discretion.

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2012

Tuition...

For a special announcement from Jack Riepe regarding his new motorcycle book, click here.

Tuition...

When it comes to riding motorcycles, drinking in strange gin mills, or courting exotic pole dancers, it never hurts to err on the side of caution. But “caution” is an abstract unknown to the average 19-year-old and a characteristic that was deemed unmanly in the average Jersey City alpha dog of 1976. The circumstances of this story were such that I found myself drinking in a strange gin mill and chatting up a pole dancer, with my motorcycle parked at the curb outside — while throwing caution to the winds.

The Jersey City in which I was born and abandoned (no less than six times) was a loose confederation of neighborhoods that each started out as independent communities. Yet over the course of time, these were merged into a loose ethnic slurry that consisted of Irish, Italian, Polish, German, and Dutch territories, with their own main streets, churches, and factories. The most common element were square, attached houses with flat roofs (some with false gambrels in front), with a stoop to the sidewalk. The “stoop” was nothing more than a short flight of stairs upon which immigrant grandparents sat, waiting to die.

Baby Boomers born here in the ‘fifties had no idea their lives had begun on the threshold of hell. But the waterfront docks had fallen into the Hudson River by the mid-sixties; the spectacular Protestant money mansions of Old Bergen and Jersey Avenue had long-since begun to sag; and local factories had the vacant-eyed look of industry gone absent. If dog shit and broken glass could have been considered treasure, we’d have been pirate kings. The city had a Dickensian look to it by the time I was riding a motorcycle. However those of us spawned inside the bell jar thought it was Paris... And from our perspective, neighboring Union City was much worse.

Union City began at 5th Street (otherwise known as Secaucus Road) and Kennedy Boulevard. Crossing this line was like entering an alien nation. While I cannot say that the residents there had both eyes on the same side of their nose (like human flounder), there seemed a perceivable difference. And the very first community you’d wander into was known as the “Transfer Station,” a rabbit warren of diagonal streets that formed concentric triangles of hopelessness, lined with run-down bars, dubbed “clubs,” in the ‘forties. (The neighborhood initially served as the terminus and turnaround of several trolley car lines, hence the name.)

Yet in 1976, the Transfer Station was like a free trade zone for wayward pole dancers, who would flash their tits when the action got slow. My action was slow that week, owing to the fact that the love of my life had temporarily regained consciousness and invited me to take the gas pipe. My pals were nowhere to be found so I made my first mistake that night and cruised the “Transfer Station.”

“The Palm” was a joint with a semi-life-sized neon sign of that tropical foliage hanging above the door. And like most trees that lose their leaves or fronds, this one had shed every last inch of glowing glass tubing. A sign in the window advertised “Exotic Dancers,” featuring “Avancé,” which I believe is fake Italian for “Chrissy.” This bar had seen better days... Like the Roman Colosseum had seen better days. The upholstery of wobbly stools was patched with tape and the place reeked of cigarettes and a beer trough full of stale suds. Cheap track lighting cast a glare on a small stage that was anchored by a brass pole, smudged by fingermarks.

Like any Hudson County rider worth his salt, I scanned the gin mill for threats, and found only one knuckle-walker in the sparse crowd. This was a mutant who could easily touch his forehead with his lower lip. I took a seat as far away from him as possible, and made my second mistake: I put a $20 bill on the bar.

New Jersey has many idiosyncrasies. One of these regards appropriate behavior in a bar, specifically, putting down a tenner or twenty, and then drinking against that dwindling amount. My father, an expert in these matters, once said to me, “Don’t ever go into a bar and order a drink without laying your money down. The bartender will expect it, and no one else will touch it.”

I have had great nights in bars in Chicago, San Francisco, New Orleans, Paris, Berlin, and Dublin. Nowhere is this tradition observed like it is in New Jersey. Placing money on the bar even causes confusion in some places.

I ordered the first of several rum and Cokes, which were about two bucks each in those days. This left me with a ten-spot and four singles on the bar when the entertainment started. “Avancé” shimmied out and started climbing the pole like the floor was on on fire. She was a couple of years older than me and new to her arduous trade. There wasn’t an excess ounce on her lithe frame. She was blonde in the way that you knew the carpet would never match the drapes, and had gone a little too heavy on the eye makeup, but she was a talent far in excess of what this place typically presented. She was wearing a thong made of fishing line and two nipple pasties about the size of dimes. (The dime is one of the most understated of all US coins. It is exactly the right size.)

As was my custom of the day, I decided to marry her, move into a cottage by a lake, and have her children. The courtship started by holding up each of the four singles as soon as she finished a number. “Avancé” took each with a smile or a little giggle, and paused to chat with me. At buck number three, she asked my name. I interpreted this as a sign that we were going to leave together. “Do you want change for that ten dollar bill?” she asked, scarfing up single buck #4. And that was when I made mistake #3.

“Not if I’m just gonna give it all to you,” I replied.

I failed to realize this was her second set of the night, and that the neanderthal had squandered his total life’s worth of $8.50 on lining her “g” string. He concluded that the sudden onset of my patronage would have a dismal impact on his romantic chances later that evening, and decided to cut his losses and my throat.

“Hey Suck Nuts... Leave the dancer alone,” growled the mutant.

My response was mistake #4. I was halfway through the “Fu” part of “Fuck you,” when a fist the size of a canned ham got stuck in my right eye. It was dislodged by a roundhouse punch to the gut that ultimately resulted in my getting an unparalleled view of a floor that hadn’t been washed in 20 years.

I know that many of my Twisted Roads readers are fascinated by nature. One of the most remarkable creatures to be found in the great US west is the lowly armadillo, an animal of limited charm, but one of great discretion. When confronted by conflict, the armadillo simply rolls into a semi-armored ball. I can tell you right now that no armadillo has ever gotten into a bar fight. Rolling into a ball simply induces raging mutants to try their luck at soccer. This human muscle pounded me out into the street, knocked me down one more time, and threw the Kawasaki over on top of me.

For the first time in my life, I understood why most states have laws against the common man owning a flame-thrower. My head began to swell in three of four places, and would eventually assume the shape of a rhombohedron. My right eye was nearly closed, and there was a dent in the bike’s gas tank. It took me ten minutes to get the Kawasaki upright and on it. And yet, I couldn’t let things go. My friend “Cretin,” a real street brawler, would have beaten this guy close to death with anything at hand. And I wanted to come back for a rematch.

I still looked like shit three days later when I gave Cretin the details.

He laughed and said we’d talk later in the week. I met him for lunch in a Union City diner, where he insisted we sit at the counter, and ordered the Garden State specialty, the Cheeseburger Deluxe.

“What do you think of the waitress?” he asked.

She was a skinny thing with a half-inch of black roots showing in her blonde hair. She was cute in the ordinary way, and attempted to conceal a tired look by wearing too much make-up.

“Thanks, Avancé,” said Cretin, leaving a $5 tip.

The waitress shot us a bashful smile, and asked, “You guys see me dance?”

The name tag on her uniform read “Karen.”

Outside, Cretin said, “That’s what got the living shit beaten out of you. Want to give her ten bucks now? She’s the same woman.”

He went on to explain that the guy who beat me was named “Twitch,” and had a reputation for getting the edge through a sucker punch.

“I’d say he had your number,” said Cretin. “You’re enraged because you got the shit kicked out of you in front of a woman, who showed her ass to you and every other guy in a shit bar — for a buck. And you didn’t even get beaten that badly.”

“What would you call this?” I asked, pointed to my blackened right eye.

“Tuition.”

©Copyright Jack Riepe 2012