I'll stop this when I can post something without someone seeing some political content in it.

Let me tell you about my last encounter with the Motomammas...I was hanging at that rock and roll glitter palace that used to be on the SE corner of Fowler and Nebraska, samplin' a jar and minding my own business when in comes this righteous babe, absolute grade A, and dressed to the nines: businesswoman-style, my Jane Bryant Quinn-in-her-twenties fantasy. She sets herself alongside, strikes up a conversation, and before you know it we're holding hands, talking real close to hear ourselves over the band, and she's caressing my ankles with the spike heels on her patent leather pumps. Having finished our beverages simultaneously, I invite her over to my place for a little smoke and talk, she says yes, and I help her off her tall stool and escort her to the door.

On the way, my corporate princess runs into a biker chick standing by the door, an innocent accident, I don't even remember who was "at fault", but some words are exchanged, and it starts to get ugly. I manage to get my date out of the bar and over to my little yellow VW, and just as I'm about to back out of the parking space, the biker chick comes out of the joint with four or five of her girl friends, they spot us and run over to my car, with blood in their eye. Out of the corner of mine, I see the half-dozen or so Harleys parked by the door, and I realize I'm in deep shit.

But my lady is full of surprises, instead of closing the door and locking it so I can beat a hasty retreat, she jumps out of the car, whips an industrial razor out of her purse, and single-handedly holds off this howling pack of harpies while she reads them the riot act. I realize it is time for a heroic gesture, so I reach over, grab her by her expensive leather belt and pull her unceremoniously into the car while I throw the bug in reverse and back out of my parking space. Meanwhile, the biker babes, still mindful of the flailing box-cutter wielded by my demure date, are trying to keep my car from going anywhere, they're pulling on the bumpers, pounding on the windshield, and two are gripping the passenger door open while they dig their heels in in an effort to keep me from making my exit.

As soon as I'm clear, I throw her in first gear, pop the clutch, and go screaming out of the parking lot onto Nebraska, in the mirror I can see the mamas picking themselves off the pavement and running back into the bar, no doubt looking for motorized reinforcements. I know there is no way I can outmaneuver or outrun a hog in my car, so I decide to rely on my one advantage, my knowledge of the area. I run several red lights to gain some time and duck into a side street, hoping to lose myself in the student ghetto just east of Nebraska. If I can just get a good distance ahead, I can either lose them, or go to ground by pulling into a driveway. I had deliberately left my headlights off to confound pursuit. To further complicate my mission, my sweet little downtown floozy is in a spitting, hissing rage, she wants me to go back so she can finish off her assailants, and I'm leaning across her lap, weaving through traffic, trying to grab the passenger door and close it, which she seems to be unable to do for some reason. I learn later it had been sprung off the hinges, and it would not shut, much less close, until I had extensive body work done on it.

It was inevitable that this recklessly driven beetle with a hysterical dame pinned to her seat by a maniac driver was bound to attract attention, and before I knew it I found myself blocked in by three Hillsborough Deputy prowlers, guns drawn, with orders to come out slowly with my hands up. To make a long story short, my banshee had reverted back to her sweet secretary mode, and she told the cops a story that roughly coincided with mine, so they decided we were OK to let go. One of them asked me if I wanted to press charges, I said no, and he agreed it was the wise thing to do. People who were witnesses against the Outlaws wound up with their dicks cut off and sewn into their mouths, if they survived at all. They also offered us an escort back to the bar so I could drop off my date so she could pick up her car.

As we drove back, I happened to mention to her that it was a good thing she hadn't been searched, or they would have found her razor. "That's not all they would have found.", she said, pulling a baggie chock full of multicolored pills out of her fashionable little leather purse.