Dispatches From The Front...

The “Dispatches From The Front” episodes of “Twisted Roads” deal with open correspondence to the author, bits and pieces of stories not yet published, real endings to stories that were published in sanitized hardcopy venues, interesting pictures that haven’t yet made it into print, and ride announcements. Deeply personal questions regarding relationships or those of a sexual nature are handled by our experts in a manner which you would expect.

Previously Unanswered Correspondence From Readers

Dear Twisted Roads:

So there I was, recently attending one of those huge motorcycle rallies that spring up like horse-shit mushrooms in the summer. My goal was to find a sizzling piece of pillion candy to make this rally experience the perfect ride. I cruised the vendor tents first. A lot of these vendors have red hot moto-chickistas pushing their stuff at the counter. There was one or two... But you could tell they were with the big guy, opening boxes in the back. Then I attended a few seminars on really important issues, like All The Beer All The Time; Using Old Motorcycle Oil To Seal The Neighbor’s Driveway for $200; and Soap And Water: The Ultimate Foreplay Advantage. Sometimes these seminars are conducted by smokin’ hot women who are looking to find the real alpha male... The guy who asks the most challenging questions. There was a babe with a pointer and some charts in the Soap and Water class, but she was the original model for the army’s clap movie in the Civil War.

I was about to give up, and point my Sportster to another distant glowing spot on the horizon, when I passed a tent in which one of the hottest ladies I have ever seen, stood before the crowd. She was about 35, had long blond hair, and a rack I could have hung my helmet on. Every time she turned, she wagged a red hot ass in my direction, that was starting to percolate my DNA. I was in love... Not the cheap kind of biker love that results in a fast ride to the nearest beach and some naked off-shore drilling. Not this time. I wanted to take her to someplace fancy... A hotel with the little bars of soap on the sink and cups wrapped in plastic.

She was teaching CPR. From outside, I watched her bend over a dummy and blow into a tube. The tube disappeared between her lips, which were as full and pouty as little facial love pillows. I watched her cheeks fill and empty with each deep breath. And then the dummy’s eyes lit up and rang a bell. All I could think of was, I got something that works just like that... Except it is more like a washing machine hose, filled with scrap iron. I was gonna walk in a volunteer for the next class, when I heard her say, “If you see a person collapse on the street, confirm they are breathing and get started. You have only seconds to act.”

That was all I needed to hear. I gave out a large gasp, clutched my chest, and did a swan dive to the dirt, right outside the tent.

She was standing over me in a pinch. The scent of her was amazing. (She may have attended the Soap and Water seminar too.) I had my eyes closed, which I thought was a nice touch, and I heard her say, “Everybody get back. I am a trained professional.” I sensed her making a judgement call, and she added, “I need to see if this man is breathing.” And with that, she kicked me in the balls like she need to score a field goal by knocking my nuts over the Washington Monument.

I started breathing just fine. I breathed through my nose, my mouth, and my ears. I am writing to tell you guys that if you get a chest pain, it’s probably nothing compared to getting revived through CPR.

Sincerely,
Moose
Fallen Arches, New Mexico

Dear Moose:
Thank you for reading Twisted Roads and for participating in this forum. We felt your comment was especially pertinent to a growing segment of our readers who no longer pass out at biker events without covering their testicles with both hands.

The Editor


Dear Twisted Roads:

I am tired of reading how one out of every three BMW riders is a raging douche. And I am tired of reading that statement here. To prove these statistics false, I have ridden to BMW clubs across the country, collected riders in groups of three, and asked, “So who’s the douche?”

In most cases, these “K” bike riders would simply roll their eyes at each other, and bust out laughing.

I consider myself the typical BMW “R’ bike rider. I have a $70 haircut; wear a one-piece, whale-foreskin “Hindenburg” armored riding suit; have a “Von Cheese Meister” yogurt maker on my handlebars; and head up the “Living Bylaws Committee” for my local club. I am delighted to tell you that your “BMW Rider Douche” statistics are skewed... So are your stories about BMW riders getting laid in parking lots, on the shoulders of the road, and in interstate highway rest areas. That’s another thing that has never happened to me neither.

Sincerely,
Jerome Terdly, Jr.
“R” Bike Rider
Chairman Living ByLaws Committee
The New Jersey “R” Bikers Perfection Team — Finderne, NJ

Dear Jerome Terdly:
Thank you for reading Twisted Roads and for participating in this forum. I forwarded your comment to our statistical analysis department for clarification. I am pleased to report that the “BMW Rider Douche Statistics” have now dropped considerably. The new numbers reflect that only one 1 in 4 BMW riders is a raging douche. While this is good news for BMW clubs across the country, it may hold a different significance for you.

Sincerely,
The Editor


Dear Twisted Roads:

I wrote to you guys last year, begging for some relationship advice, as my old lady was on the verge of stepping out with some asshole who rode a Yamaha. You said I should attempt to be “more communicative, more understanding, and more willing to give from myself,” which apparently meant taking a lot of shit and waiting for her to come first, which would mean pissing away a whole weekend of riding.

I am writing to tell you I resolved the problem myself.

First of all, there are few arguments that cannot be concluded by simply saying, “Shut the fuck up.” These three words convey a mood... Suggest a course of action... And generate peace in the household. Secondly, despite your bullshit, most woman really do want a high-pressure air compressor for Christmas, with a case of extra oil for it on Valentine’s Day. (I proved that.) And finally, you set a dangerous precedence by letting a woman orgasm first, or at all. My experience is that she’ll never put a second spit shine on the narwhal after that, if you catch my drift.

So I did it my way. Last night, my wife got me raging blasted, humped the hell out of me, and had me tattooed while I was passed out — all for my birthday. She wants me so badly — and all to herself — that she had her initials tattooed on my forehead: Denise Nancy Rugeriota. (I never even knew her middle name was “Nancy.”) Right now, she’s outside doing a brake job on my Harley. (I didn’t know she knew how to do that either.)

You assholes at Twisted Roads aren’t always right.

All my love,
Vinnie Rugeriota
Amish Curse, Pa

Dear Vinnie Rugeriota:
Thank you for reading Twisted Roads and for participating in this forum. Enjoy your next ride. Go fast into all the curves.

Sincerely,
The Editor


Dear Twisted Roads:

Something very odd happened here the other night. My girlfriend and I were sitting around the living room, which we often do after going for a rousing Sunday Goldwing ride to the diabetes clinic with our club. She was knitting another coat for the cat, and I was reading a new book I’d purchased. On a whim, I started to read an interesting part of it aloud... It was about a biker, who had just smoked a cigar and who was having the most incredible things happen to him as a consequence.

My girlfriend stopped knitting, and began to wipe my face with the little garment.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Wiping off a more comfortable place for me to sit,” she replied.

This has happened on three occasions now. In fact, it has happened every time I have read aloud from Politically Correct Cigar Smoking For Social Terrorists, by Jack Riepe. Have you ever heard of things like this happening before with regard to this book?

Yours Very Truly,
Shandy Gaffer
Tuttlesville, MN — Home of the Lutefisk Martini

Dear Shandy Gaffer:
Thank you for reading Twisted Roads and for participating in this forum. We’ve heard these rumors for years. But here in the bunker, it’s hard to tell what is fact and what is really good fact.

Sincerely,
The Editor

For more information on this book, including "How To Order And Save A Fortune In The Process" click here.

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