So I'm driving to work this morning, minding my own business, listening to Mike and Mike talk about which of them should throw out the first pitch next time they're invited and if only one is allowed. My thoughts are wandering the way they always do when your driving 30 minutes and there's nothin' much to do. I'm thinking about how much fun it is to swing a golf club. The bills I need to pay. The fact that I should get my tags for my license plates since they'll be expired by Monday.
Anyway, the stretch of road I was on had a posted speed limit of 40 MPH. I basically never speed, unless I'm on the interstate. I'll go with the obligitory 5-10 over. So I'm cruising along at 40. Mike and Mike agree that Golick should be the one to throw the pitch. Just then, I hear the rumbling of a motorcycle. It comes whizzing past, weaving in and out through the traffic. It was loud. It was moving at least 60 mph. It was probably a Harley. I didn't really see. What I did see was the jacket the rider had on. It said "Hells Angels Ne***" or something. The location was obscured by the back of the bike seat. I was surprised. I didn't know they still had "Hells Angels".
I was kind of entertained by that. I hadn't thought about this group of misfits since I saw the "Starsky and Hutch" movie. There weren't Hells angels in it, but there was some sort of Bike Club that was supposed to be for toughs.
There was also this Charlie Sheen movie where he was a cop who was deep undercover in some outlaw bike gang.
Recap of my wandering thoughts this morning:
"I think I should throw the first pitch, because people would be more enter..."
"Let's see, Pay the daycare, U.P. tuition, get new car registra - What the - Hells Angels, Ne***? Wow. I didn't know they still had those. Maybe it's his dad's jacket. No. No one would wear one of those unless they "earned" it."
I wondered how you get in. Who do you contact? Do they have a web site? If I was to guess based on what I remember from Starsky and Hutch and that one Charlie Sheen movie. I'd say first of all, you have to ride your motorcycle to some shady saloon on the outskirts of town. It is very important that the saloon be made of wood. It must have a lot of worn out paint advertising on the building. Of course there must be several Harley Davidson motorcycles lined up out front. I don't think you'd be doing yourself any favors if you were recently bathed either. It might not be the case anymore, but I believe a couple of decades ago, it wouldn't hurt to have a red bandanna tied around one of your boots.
Once you enter the bar, the worst thing you can do is anything other than walk solemnly to the bar and order a beer. This is one thing you cannot get wrong. Do not order a Budweiser, a Miller, or any other specific brand. You order a beer and take the 8 ounce draw you're given. If there are no women in the bar you might be in trouble. You will probably have to finish your beer and get out of there before someone starts talking to you. But don't worry, there's always a woman in the bar. She's currently being harassed by the biggest guy in there. The leader of the gang. Now all you have to do is pick a fight with him. This is not optional. The Hells Angels are currently looking for troublemakers. They don't care if they kick the shit out of you or vice versa, but somebody's getting a whoopin'.
The best way to pick a fight with the leader of the Hells Angels is to simply notice that he's being kind of rough with "The Lady". A subtle turn in the direction of the disturbance and then a quick glance back down at your beer should be enough.
"Something on your mind, mister?" and congratulations, your application is currently being processed! It's all down hill from here. Just mop up the floor with the guy and bingo, not only are you in the club, you're their new leader.
And that woman you protected? She'll welcome you aboard with a nice slap in the face. Even though it will sting tremendously, it is very important at this point that you don't cry. A wry smile and a turn to finish the last gulp of your beer is the next step to full-fledged Hell's Angelhood. So finish that beer in one gulp, and head for the door.
"Say hold up mister,"
Stop. Turn slowly to face whoever.
"I ain't never seen anybody put a whoopin on ol' Dean like 'at. Who the hell are you?"
"Just passin through. Stopped in to get a drink. That's all"
"We could use a guy like you. No shit. Why don't you ride with us."
"Not much of a joiner"
"Hell, none of us are. That's what this is. A club of loners."
"What would Dean say about it?"
"Dean ain't gonna say shit, is you Dean?"
"uhg"
"Suppose I was to ride with you all on say a probationary basis. What do you guys do?"
"Hunt vampires, mostly"
"I'm in"
(to be continued. or not)
9 comments:
Come on we all know the only sure way to gain entry is to do the big shoe dance to the song Tequila. Either that or you have to whip up a large bath of meth.
I don't like Mike. And Mike's not any better. In fact, the only sports commentator I can't stand more than Mike, or Mike for that matter, is JT the Brick. That's guy's simply a moron.
No, Steve Zaban talks to me when I'm driving to Master's swimming practice at 5:30 AM. That guy's funny. And persuasive. He alone hooked me on Leinenkugels. Some mornings, I want to throw in the towel (hardy har har) and go directly to Wal-mart to get me some of best that Chippewa Falls, WI has to offer: Honeyweiss, Sunset Wheat, Red Lager, Classic Amber and Summer Shandy. Mmmmm. Beer. Mmmm. Leinenkugels.
Hang on a sec, there's a knock on the door. I leach off my neighbor's wifi and he probably saw Teh Google search "linenkugel beer" and when it returned, "Did you mean: Leinenkugel" and I clicked on yes, it registered two hits on his router log with beer as the subject. He must be thirsty. He listens to Zaban. He likes Leinenkugel.
So like I was saying, hang on a sec, as I get a Leinenkugel Summer Shandy out of the ice box for my neighbor, who just knocked on the door...
I completely forgot about Pee-wee's method. Once again, you're right.
Who says "Ice box" anymore?
Yeah, and once again what the F is Brady (aka Brandy) talking about?
Right?
Shim,
Out!
Ok, I'm back. It was my neighbor alright. He was looking for a Charlie Burton CD. I told him Shim had it.
So let's recap...
I don't like Mike, or Mike for that matter, and I really don't like that moron JT.
However, if you're talking about Zaban, Leinenkugels and Charlie Burton...
Another knock on the door. Hang on, I'll be right back.
That reminds me. The other day, I was wondering how you get into the Hells Angels.
Sorry. I got distracted.
Factually, my diverticulitis became inflamed, requiring a visit to my gastroenterologist. Unfortunately, the gastroenterologist was on a crappy vacation through this past Tuesday. Crappy, because his Panamanian wife and their three teenage daughters like to shop. A lot. As a result, they're strapped and are only able afford a second tier cruise from a lesser-known cruise line out of Ft Lauderdale. (Their airfare was covered by a time-share presentation).
While on the cruise ship, my gastroenterologist met my next door neighbor.
My neighbor was on the cruise because he has been following Charlie Burton.
Charlie Burton was on the cruise ship because he was the on-board musical guest.
Anyway, after Charlie's show on second night of the three day cruise, my neighbor attempted to get him to autograph a copy of Don't Fight the Band That Needs You. Charlie, who was already pissed about colliding with a stage prop (chair) wasn't in the mood and declined. My neighbor, who can be somewhat of an impulsive hot-head, flashed with rage and smashed the LP over Charlie's head. A fight broke out, which if you're keeping score, is ironic given the album's title, Don't Fight the Band That Needs You. The fight was over before it even started: our good 'ol boy Charlie socked my neighbor in the gut and knocked the wind out of him. As my neighbor slinked to the floor, he heard some girl scream,"is there a doctor in the house?!?" His eyes then went dark.
Out of the smokey shadows (2nd tier cruise lines allow smoking over international waters), my gastroenterologist emerged. He examined my neighbor and appeared to be whispering something to him. That's when my neighbor came to.
Later, my neighbor noticed that he had two red marks right below his ear. At the time, he didn't think anything of it.
Let's recap. I was going to get back to you. I got distracted. Mac 'n cheese. A case of Diverticulitis required a visit to my strapped-for-cash Doctor, who was absent while he, his Panamanian wife and their four daughters (they've had another child since I started this thread) went on a crappy cruise/time-share presentation vacation where upon through an ironic twist of events involving the smashing of Don't Fight the Band That Needs You over Charlie Burton's head, he -- the gatroentrologist -- found himself reviving my neighbor, who had been subsequently socked in the gut and had passed out.
Whew! That's quite a story that's what my neighbor just told me. In fact, he's sitting here right now. He's sorta freaking me out because he has a glazed and hungry look in his eyes and hasn't even touched the Leinenkugel's Red Lager I gave him.
OH CRAP -- He's lunging at me!!! Aiyeeeee!!!!
j;sd;gmj;nogio;njeaso;gihj'
Hi Fred. I'm Brady's neighbor. I've been meaning to ask you. Do you still work at the UP?
Incredible. Thanks for that. I am now truly inspired.
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