Dear Motorcycle Online:
I never thought the letters you received were true, until I had a mind-blowing experience I'd like to share with your readers. I was taking a 60-mile motorcycle ride through Washington State back roads that make Deal's Gap look like a Nebraska highway, the pocketa-pocketa-pocketa of my finely-tuned steed singing a symphony as I passed Troy Bayliss on his Ducati like he was standing still, and all of this with my bike still in the shop. My riding group, composed of lean, muscular Gen-X boys whom I had taken under my wing (more on that in my next letter), stopped at a gas station where I beheld the most stunning creature I have ever seen in my 40, er, 45, uh, 42, uh, forty-something years on this Earth. She was a dusky Palestinian wearing skin-tight leathers and a Semtex belt. I nearly creamed my jeans imagining her binding my hands and feet as she probed my Bekaa Valley with the bayonet of her AK-47 while calling me her "dirty little Zionist entity." I instantly forgot about my wife/ex-wife/girlfriend/blow-up doll/semen-encrusted sock as l felt the burgeoning growth of all three inches of my "Seattle Space Needle" (that's eleven-and-a-half Chicago inches)...