Date: Tue, 14 Jan 1997 11:53:04 -0600
From: Ken Hooper <bighouse@socomm.net>
Subject: Engine Swaps--The Boys are Back in Town!

[Herewith, some of my friends amusing themselves at our expense. Offered as
a tension-breaker. I laughed so hard I had to clean my screen. BTW the
quickest way to see that desirable 56 for sale is to have somebody start a
lunatic project with it. Yet one more "only requires assembly" blue-sky
bus.]

<<Btw, I was stuck behind a VW bus going up a hill yesterday, and I know why
you guys have to have "support" groups--for protection.>>

Down Ken's way they travel in huge caravans. The Hell's Angels
and the Bandidos are completely terrified of them, which is why
both gangs have moved to Sweden or Denmark or some place
like that. The ringleader is this shadowy guy named Mad
somebody-or-other who owns a chain of Denny's where they
won't serve _anybody_. His bus has a bored-out Deux Chevaux
engine in it that runs on pure Regular. Mad whoozis has also been
known to chew dioxin gum and spit the juice at little children
recuperating in hospitals. Pam, do _not_ mess with these
people. Trust me on this. I think it's been on Hard Copy. (I've
been trying to interest Women's Wear Daily in a story about
it but they aren't returning my calls.)

The only good news is that when you pass them on your bicycle
you can usually outrun them. But they say that once you've
passed by the caravan, your days are numbered--sort of like
being under the shadow of that kindly old neighborhood elephant
when it's thinking about sitting on you once and for all. (You
laugh, but this happens all the time in my neighborhood.) They
remember everybody and forget nothing. One day you'll think
you're in the clear and you'll look behind you and see off in the
distance that familiar Robin's Egg Blue and rust-colored bus--
it's real rust--covered in McGovern and Don't Buy Grapes
stickers and dioxin-spit stains.

    Comes, for you,
    On wings of a thousand colors
    And rings of pure carbon
    A pale rider, feral eyes ablaze with
    The madness of a thirty-mile-per-hour
    Event horizon and an 8-track
    That worked only once.

Be _very_ scared.

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