GIVE TIL IT HURTS

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The Daily Donnybrook, and other fine things

Welcome to Ye Olde Colde Furye Blogge’s shiny new open-comments thread, where y’all can have at it as you wish, on any topic you like. Do note that the official CF comments policy remains in effect here, as enumerated in the left sidebar. All new posts will appear below this one. There will be blood…

Mike @Substack

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Another day…

…another looney-tooney “transgender” attempted murder.

School Ignored Trans Student’s ‘Hit List, Leading to a Bloody Beat-Down
“I’m gonna murder you,” shouted the trans-identifying student at Pennbrook Middle School as the 13-year-old blindsided a 12-year-old girl last week and bashed her skull repeatedly with a Stanley cup (ie, a ThermosM). The victim had to be hospitalized, her scalp stapled back together, and she had to go through a concussion protocol, according to police.

It’s about as horrible a middle school assault as can be imagined, not in the least because students and staff alike were well aware of the perpetrator’s “hit list.”

The Daily Mail reported Monday that another 12-year-old female student — remaining anonymous because of her age, like the victim and the thug — made a public statement that “she and two fellow students filled out paperwork explaining what they knew was going to happen if nothing was done and said that she was warned ‘watch your back’ at lunch.”

“You could’ve stopped it,” she said. “It was five hours from when I told you it was going to happen. I don’t get how you couldn’t have stopped that.”

“We had to watch [the victim] taken out with blood dripping down her face and I will never forget that! Laying in bed last night I just kept repeating it in my head.”

Reportedly, she was next on the hit list — the one the school did nothing about except to tell the “trans” kid’s potential victims, “Don’t worry about it, it’s not gonna happen.”

Let’s talk for a moment about the so-called “trans” phenomenon we’ve seen explode these last few years.

NononononoNOOO, we shouldn’t. In fact, we mustn’t, not for any reason whatsoever. That would be WRONG, see.

So naturally, the vicious anti-“trans person” H8RRRbigot author then goes on to do precisely that, the “transphobic” sumbitch. Why, it’s an act of actual, literal genocide, that’s what it is! Probably another of those vile, vicious, H8ful Trump-suckers, I bet.

If these deranged mutants keep it up with the batshit-insane mayhem—which they will; the voices in their heads seem to require it of them, while Leftard chaos-pimps stand up and cheer, denigrate the brutalized victims, or at best maintain strict silence—one has to wonder how much longer it’s going to be before these twisted maniacs wind up with some real, bona fide hatred and retaliatory violence to contend with. For the nonce, it’s as our blog-buddy of twenty-mumblemumble years’ standing Stephen concludes, in response to yet another explicit threat of freakshow-violence against specific cis-het oppressors:

But don’t worry. He won’t actually hurt anyone. Right up until he does.

Pretty much, yeah.

Update! At the “Thermos” link above, Ace coins a term I expect will come in mighty useful for saner sorts going forward, regrettably: “Transgender Rage.”

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Adapt and conquer

I seem to be saying this more and more lately, and it’s perfectly true: we live in an age of miracles.

21-year-old student from Pune and the curious case of her changing hands
Globally, less than 200 hand transplants have been conducted, and no scientific evidence exists to record changes in skin tone or shape of the hand. Doctors say this is the first such case, perhaps.

“Sometimes good things fall apart so that better things can fall together,” was the first sentence Shreya Siddanagowder wrote in her notebook a year after her hand transplant.

Today, her handwriting almost matches her original, but what has left doctors surprised is how the colour of Shreya’s hands, which once belonged to a 20-year-old man from Kerala until his death in August 2017, had changed to match the rest of her skin tone.

“I don’t know how the transformation occurred. But it feels like my own hands now. The skin colour was very dark after the transplant, not that it was ever my concern, but now it matches my tone,” says 21-year-old Shreya, who underwent Asia’s first inter-gender hand transplant.

Back in Kochi, where she underwent the double-hand transplant at Amrita Institute of Medical Sciences (AIMS), surgeons are researching whether female hormones could hold the key to such changes.

“We are hoping to publish two cases of hand transplant in a scientific journal. It will take time. We are recording the colour change in (Shreya’s) case, but we need more evidence to understand the change in shape of the fingers and hands. An Afghan soldier, who received a double-hand transplant from a male donor here, had also noticed a slight change in skin tone but he died in Afghanistan last week. We could not document much,” says Dr Subramania Iyer, head of plastic and reconstructive surgery at Amrita Institute.

Yes, there are pics documenting the change in both size/shape and skin color, and they’re nothing short of remarkable—as if having near-fully-functional transplanted hands wasn’t remarkable enough to begin with. The article is paywalled, but good ol’ 12ft Ladder worked just fine for me. I have a few other handy-dandy de-paywalling links which I really need to put up over in the sidebar, I’m thinking, although there’s always the option of just disabling Javascript temporarily in your web browser too.

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Short, definitely not sweet

CFLifer hhluce has a brief Substack post following up on my own “Yeah, no” jeremiad from a cpl-three days ago, which he commended to our attention in the comments and I felt was worth a main-page mention here as well. Go ye and read of it, for it is…well, damned disturbing, actually, if you own a car manufactured in the last five years.

Turncoat turns back again?

Gotta admit, I did NOT see this coming.

Bill Barr says he’s backing Trump 2024 because ‘far left’ is a greater threat: ‘Heavy-handed bunch of thugs’
Former Attorney General Bill Barr is backing his old boss in the November election despite their very public fallout — because he believes the “far left” is an even greater threat to the US.

Barr, 73, disputed the notion that former President Donald Trump will be worse for democracy than President Biden, and warned about the rise of the “far left.”

“The Biden administration is in fact the greater threat to democracy,” Barr told Fox News’ “Cavuto Live” on Saturday.

“I think that they have a totalitarian temper. They have bought into the progressive movement. And they’re trying to squelch opposition and freedom of speech.”

“It’s a heavy-handed bunch of thugs in my opinion, and that’s where the threat is,” Barr said at another point about the far-left.

Meh, can’t say I give much of a shit about this development, anymore than I do about the 24 “elections” generally. That said, Barr is right as rain about the Goosesteppin’ Left, however surprising it may be to hear the likes of him saying it. In the final analysis, though, the real “threat to democracy” isn’t the Biden marionette or his White House junta; it’s the sinister, shadowy FederalGovCo Grey Men behind the curtain.

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Commitment

Haven’t mentioned this story yet, I was waiting around for a certain well-known news and opinion website’s take. Finally, it’s here.

Man Sets Himself On Fire To Show How His Side Is The Sane And Rational One
NEW YORK, NY — To show that his side is the side of sanity, logic, and rationality, a local man has decided to set himself ablaze, incinerating his own body on live TV.

Eyewitnesses report that the man, who was clearly in a healthy, stable state of mind, doused himself in gasoline before striking a match and igniting his own body, presumably for a very sane and noble reason.

As flames engulfed him, onlookers were immediately convinced of the truth of his cause, ending all debate once and for all.

“Well, I guess that settles that. He’s right and I’m wrong,” said local man David Thatch. “This is how you win arguments, folks! Self-immolation clearly proves the superiority of his worldview.”

“Boy do I look stupid, and irrational now for disagreeing with that guy,” added other onlookers. “He just proved that he’s the sensible one that we should be listening to and everyone else is wrong.”

And with that, every shitlib D卐M☭CRAT in the nation nodded their heads in solemn, somber agreement. My title, in case you were wondering, refers to the old joke about the distinction between the chicken and the pig seen at breakfast-time: the chicken is dedicated, but the pig is committed.

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Ask A Silly Question Part the Eleventy Million Bajillionth

This time, it’s our esteemed colleague Buck Throckmorton asking:

THE MORNING RANT: Why Do Intelligent People Continue to Rely on Government Data That is Known to Be False?
—Buck Throckmorton

A: INTELLIGENT people…don’t. Which, of course, Buck knows already, thanks; inflation and unemployment numbers, FaxVid deaths, Climate Change (formerly Global Warming, formerly Global Cooling, formerly The Weather)™, “baseless claims” of election rigging, “mostly peaceful” BLM riots, “insurrection” sans torches, pitchforks, or firearms—it’s all a web of deceit, disingenuousness, and/or baldfaced lies.

The only reliable assumption regarding the pattern of falsified reporting from government agencies is that everything they report is false and intentionally misleading.

Falsus in uno, falsus in omnibus.

S’truth. Which in a way is a good thing, ‘cause these days hardly anything else is.

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Montana sitrep

Q: Are things coming to a head, even in Big Sky Country?

A: Yes. Yes, they are.

There’s Gonna be a War in Montana
An analysis of visible propaganda in Bozeman, Big Sky, and Three Forks

In popular culture, protagonists and antagonists battle eternally for Montana’s precious land. Country folk fight off city folk in Yellowstone and the podcast Land Grab: A Podcast About the Place We Call Montana. Long before that Montana (1950) pit sheep farmers against cattle farmers. In Last of the Dogmen (1995) cowboys faced Cheyenne Indians. Of the 14 major film/TV projects scheduled to be shot in Montana, every single one involves some take on the battle for Montana’s soul. And Montana’s soul is in its land.

Land conflicts have led to at least one recent murder, but despite Yellowstone’s depiction of ranchers (our heroes) massacring greedy real estate developers with machine guns, so far Montana hot wars have been relegated to fiction.

My wife, toddler, and I attended a family reunion on a ranch in Tom Miner Basin—one of the most beautifully preserved parts of the state—for a week. Six years ago I attended the same event at the same ranch. There is indeed something special about the land and particularly the sky in Tom Miner Basin. Rural Montana is astonishing. I won’t bore you with more cringey descriptions because that’s all there is to say. Jockeying for Montana’s land provides great stakes for drama because the prize is priceless.

More interesting to me were the parts of Montana I saw by accident. A new coldness grips the relationship between visitors and locals. I first noticed it at the ranch. Six years ago the kitchen helpers were a happy mix. The chef was known for his thoughtful local cuisine, elk with au jus, beef burgers from ranch cattle, loaded baked potatoes, hearty mac and cheese. The servers wore big smiles. The progressive boomers attending the reunion were comfortable with this type of staff, the same hodgepodge they interacted with at home. Much backslapping occurred.

This time, the help had clearly experienced a vibe shift. They were all white, and distant. The food was awful—boiled carrots and reheated pork steaks, the result of some Aramark-type lowest-bidder supply chain. The new staff had been mostly hired on Coolworks, a website for low paid service jobs on ranches, resorts, and other “great places.” They came from the surrounding towns, forgotten about, left behind, bright red Trump country. Young women with sloped posture and heavy eyeshadow, barely 18. Their clothes don’t fit, they looked impoverished, hungry, skittering. The young chef who had once proudly presented his take on local food was gone. The guests no longer chatted with servants. There was separation and silence.

Then my wife tested positive for COVID so we fled to Bozeman. Throughout the subsequent week, I explored Bozeman and Big Sky, ultra-hot destinations (and now homes) for the woke bourgeoisie, and Three Forks, the polar opposite, a totally different world a razor thin distance away. I saw two groups of people, an overclass and an underclass, pressed up against each other, spoiling for a fight, just waiting for the littlest spark to set their fury ablaze.

Over what? The soul of Montana of course. One-of-a-kind land. That’s nothing new. What’s new is the character of the warring factions. They aren’t who you see on TV. On one side you have global interests imputing their values, importing cheaper labor, hollowing out Montana’s attractions and selling them to an international bourgeoisie for maximum profits. On the other you have the new underclass. Not the friendly Christian country folk of times past. And not Cowboy Hat Republican Rancher Dad either. No, these are a new kind of country person. Angry, exasperated, poor, Trump-loving service-workers—the Oxy takers, the meth cookers, the eaters of Chick-Fil-A. This group is acutely aware of just who controls Bozeman and Big Sky, and believe that the same people are coming for their territory. And they’re right.

If you listen, you can hear the two groups screaming at each other in silence, waiting for their very own Gavrilo Princip to spark this thing off.

You can at that, and not just in Montana, either. Then again, when shitlibs are screaming at the top of their lungs exactly what they intend to do to you, it probably behooves you to listen. Because if you don’t think they’ll really do it—not they themselves necessarily, but through their Wokester governments; their Wokester banks and other corporate entities; their Wokester cultural mafia; their monolithic Wokester “education” edifices from pre-K to post-grad; their grim, whey-faced Wokester bureacrats—then you probaby aren’t paying attention anything like closely enough. Divemedic knows:


Indeed so.

(Via WRSA)

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RIP Roman Gabriel

I won’t go so far as to say I was a fan, exactly—he was responsible for vanquishing my beloved Dallas Cowboys way too many times for that—but there’s no doubt he was one of the all-time greats of the long-gone era of rough and tumble, bare-knuckles NFL quarterbacking, and gave Roman’s Legions one hell of a lot to cheer about.


I don’t recollect him being regarded as what used to be called a “scrambler,” but when Gabriel did come out of the pocket he could sure do it well; being a big, rawboned sumbitch, he was pretty tough for the defense to bring down. For sure, he was expertly skilled at lofting the long ball and laying it right into the hands of his intended receiver, as the video attests. Fare thee well Roman Gabriel, we shan’t see your like again.

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When he’s right, he’s right

Which, sadly enough, is not terribly often. But in this particular case, I’m glad Elon hipped me to it.


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Words of wisdom

Okay, this is great stuff rat cheer.

One of the hats I wore before I retired was that of resident conscience. I had a whiteboard. I started recording bits of wisdom when I started the job. I took a photo when I left. My boss used to bring people in to read the wisdom contained thereon.

I have taken the time to transcribe the contents in case the picture is hard to read:

All of the carefully thought out and intelligent plans in the world from the beginning of time to the present day tremble in the presence of ONE motivated idiot.

There are three kinds of people in the world, those who can count and those who can’t.

You should really do some research instead of just listening to the voices in your head.

BOGSAT (Bunch of guys sitting around a table)

In a just universe, stupid should hurt. IT often does, and it hurts the wrong people

Exhaustipated – too tired to give a shit.

Silence is golden. Duct tape is silver.

We have enough ‘youth’. How about a fountain of ‘smart’?

Roman Engineer’s Law: The engineer must sleep under the bridge he designed.

I’ve got to stop saying “How stupid can you be?” Too many people are taking it as a challenge.

Lots more at the link, of which you should read the all.

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It could never happen here

Got news for ya: it already did.

BREAKING NEWS: Seventy-Two Killed Resisting Gun Confiscation In Massachusetts. National Guard units seeking to confiscate a cache of recently banned assault weapons were ambushed by elements of a Para-military extremist faction.

Military and law enforcement sources estimate that 72 were killed and more than 200 injured before government forces were compelled to withdraw. Speaking after the clash, Massachusetts Governor Thomas Gage declared that the extremist faction, which was made up of local citizens, has links to the radical right-wing tax protest movement, which has been blamed for a number of terrorist acts, including the destruction of valuable cargo that had been located on ships in the Boston harbor.

Gage blamed the extremists for recent incidents of vandalism directed against internal revenue offices. The governor, who described the group’s organizers as “criminals and cowards” issued an executive order authorizing the summary arrest of any individual who has interfered with the government’s efforts to secure law and order.

The military raid on the extremist arsenal followed wide-spread refusal by the local citizenry to turn over recently outlawed assault weapons after Gage issued a ban on military-style assault weapons and ammunition earlier in the week.

Thank goodness history never, EVER repeats itself, right?

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MOAR trouble with teachers

I have a small question: what the actual fuck are “furries” doing in schools in the first fucking place, anyway?


Evidently, the “furries” these kids are complaining about are fellow students, not teachers—somewhat surprisingly, since the whole “furry” phenomenon started out as a sexual kink among “people” well past the age of majority (notice I did NOT say “adults” or “grown-ups”), and not a relatively innocuous if odd childhood declaration of their affection for household pets.

Be that as it may, the fact the “furries” are there at all is indicative of a failure of the teachers to maintain discipline in their classrooms, seems to me. Not an entirely unreasonable one, sadly enough, since the faculty and administrators seem to realize what would happen to them if they DID try to enforce discipline: “cancellation” by the Wokester hordes; loss of their jobs and careers; discrimination lawsuits; mass Leftist rent-a-mob protests at their homes in the dead of night, and etc.

Eventually, such dangerous White Supremacist insurrectionist Sacred Democracy™ defilin’ teachers (if any) will have their doors kicked in by FBI/SWAT paramilitary brigades, their dogs shot, their children forced out in their pajamas and laid facedown on the front lawn beside the corpses of their bullet-riddled pets with a select-fire M4 pointed at their heads—all the usual sort of thing, you know the drill by now.

Be sure to watch it to the end for the students’ near-disbelieving confirmation that their school “leadership” has actually put litter boxes in the girls’ bathrooms to oblige  their delusional “furry” students. No really, apparently they did that. The “furries” would have been better served if they installed a few fire-and-brimstone Baptist preachers in there instead, methinks. Assuming they haven’t all been rounded up and imprisoned without benefit of trial by now, that is.

HATE SPEECH!! HAAATE SPEEEEECH!!! I hereby denounce myself.

Update! Via Dave Renegade: did somebody just say “failure to enforce discipline”? Why yes, I believe someone did.


That scrawny, worthless nigger should have been strung up by his thumbs from the nearest oak tree in plain view of all his likeminded filthbags, pour encourager les autres, within no more than three (3) minutes of doing this shit, for no less than a full five (5) day school-week. Unacceptable, unforgivable, completely inexcusable and intolerable, that’s what. Instead, the shitlibs will probably give the little turd some kind of medal for his “bravery” in fighting against his “oppressors.”

Know why teachers in every semi-urban government school say they’re in constant fear every day they show up to work? Putting up with shit like this without dealing out some hard, swift consequences the instant it even looks like happening, that’s fucking why.

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The trouble with teachers

“Chalkboard Heresy” for sure, he’s blaspheming against the Left’s Bull God.


If you don’t want to bother with the annoying “Read more” click-generator, which I cordially despise myself, here’s the full text:

One thing I’ve realized after working with teachers for 12 years is that it’s very hard to get them to commit to political or ideological neutrality in the classroom because:

A. They view teaching as an inherently political act intended to turn students into political units (activists/“change agents.”)

B. They attach moral value to their beliefs, and thus view the proliferation of those beliefs as a moral obligation.

C. They do not recognize particular beliefs as political or ideological, and believe they’re “just teaching truth.”

D. When trying to be balanced, requiring students to compare two sources or opinions, they engineer- purposefully or unwittingly- the lesson to bring students to certain conclusions.

He’s right, right down the line. It’s always the way with shitlibs; they truly, sincerely cannot fathom how any intelligent, decent, well-intentioned person could possibly disagree with their noxious, proto-fascist views except out of pure, black-hearted evil. They are right, you are wrong, and that’s the end of it. There really is no point in trying to reason with them, or even talk to them at all; their belief in their own righteousness is rock-solid, and there’s nothing more to discuss. They aren’t interested, therefore aren’t listening anyway. They cannot be persuaded, they can be neither bargained with nor wheedled; they perceive no need whatever to reconsider or even re-examine their own opinions. Put in the simplest terms possible, they cannot see, and have no desire to.

In effect, shitlibs are, as the priests used to caution, “obstinate in sin.” So to Hell with them, then. When you persist in attempting to debate fairly and factually with them, all you’re really doing is teaching a pig to sing. Unfortunately, we all already know what that fool’s errand will get ya ere the end.

Via Stephen, who adds:

Plus this: “This is so contrary to the teachers I grew up with in the 70’s and 80’s. I didn’t even know if most of them were married, let alone their political persuasion. There were always 1 or 2 more “radical” teachers who didn’t hide their politics, but they were rare.”

I’ve joked for years that I knew so little about my teachers’ lives outside of school that, for all we knew, they blinked in and out of existence when the morning and end-of-school bells rang.

Not so much with my teachers; nearly all of them went to our church, knew my entire family well, and were considered good friends. Several had even taught my dad when he was but a wee bairn, and remembered him fondly. Looking back, it’s another benefit of growing up in a small, close-knit town.

As for knowing your teacher’s marital status, that was simplicity itself: the ones who went by “Mrs” were married, the ones who were “Miss,” as was my young, attractive 3rd grade teacher Miss Fitzgerald, weren’t. The negligible fraction of “Mr’s” among the faculty…well, frankly, who cares? I didn’t have a single male teacher until Junior High, now renamed “Middle School,” to prevent the lasting psychological damage inflicted upon fragile young minds by the hateful insult implicit in the word “Junior,” I reckon.

Naturally, the shitlibs had to get busy doing away with the Mrs/Miss linguistic convenience as quick as they could. “Disrespectful,” “derogatory,” “injurious” and/or “offensive,” an archaic remnant of the Patriarchal edifice of Systemic Misogynist Opression and Enslavement, holding the Sisterhood entire back from being all they could and should be, don’tchaknow. Thank God Gaia we’ve “evolved” beyond that particular hideous atrocity, at least.

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“A devastatin’ blow to our antiquated systems”

One of the all-time greatest scenes in the history of the cinematic art.

A blazing campfire way out in the boonies; a handheld camera shooting from the back seat of a scarlet 68 Chevy Impala ragtop purchased specifically for the purpose, rolling along at no more than 25mph so as not to jostle the cameraman overmuch; gorgeous, gleaming, one-of-a-kind Harley Panhead choppers; joints with actual, no-shit weed in ‘em for purposes of artistic verisimilitude; three immensely talented, daring actors improvising the dialogue in real-time, as they went, unscripted and unrehearsed.

Folks, it just don’t get much better than this.

The Captain America and Billy bikes were designed and built by the somewhat unlikely team of Cliff Vaughs and Ben Hardy, which is a great story in its own right.

When The Easy Rider concept was quickly made into form, Peter Fonda set out to get him a couple of bikes for the movie. There’s lots of controversy about who built these bikes. Some say Dan Haggerty, who was in the movie. The guy who painted the bikes, his son says it was him (his dad, that is). Some say it was Peter Fonda.

But the guy who built them was a guy named Ben Hardy. Ben was an African american man who knew Harleys, and knew what he was doing. When Cliff Vaughs was asked by Fonda to oversee the building of the bikes, Vaugh’s turned to Hardy who was well known (if you were black) in Los Angeles as the go to guy to build a killer bike, and do it right.

Peter had only one thing he wanted on the bike. He wanted Captain America to have a flag on his gas tank. Beyond that, the design was left to Vaughs. I gotta think tho…Peter was an experienced rider, and Dennis hopper wasn’t. That had to have come up in the conversation somewhere, because the Billy bike was a much easier bike to ride. I had a fat boy that was really close to the same configuration, and my brother has a friend with a Billy Bike replica. They’re easy bikes to ride. The captain America bike? Cut that steering head off and rake that bitch out like it is, throw in those long forks with no front brake and see how you fare. You don’t give that kind of bike to a beginner.

It was Cliff who actually first offered the name “Easy Rider” to Fonda. It was a term he used in the day. Whats an Easy Rider? that depends on who you ask. In the 1900s it meant a freeloader. A guy who mooched off you. To Dennis hopper, it meant a man who lived off the money of a whore. He got it from an old Mae West movie. Whatever cliff meant by it, I’m not sure. All I know is he redefined the word. To this day I think it is associated to Harley riders. Maybe because of cliff, but most definitely because of the movie. When you say Easy Rider, I think of the movie. I think of Harley’s.

Vaugh’s quickly took the idea to Ben Hardy. Peter bought four 1950’s panhead police bikes from auction, and got them to Hardy and Vaughs. Jim Buchanan fabricated the frames, the engines were built by Hardy, Dean Lanza did the paint (his son is adamant he built the entire bikes). 2 bikes were for filming, 2 were for the final sequence of the movie, which I’m fucking assuming you know about, otherwise you wouldn’t be here reading this. Hardy went to work, and the rest is history.

It is at that, it surely is, and not just biker history alone. A pic of Hardy, and of his LA shop.

Ben hardy Easy Rider Bike.

Ben hardy shop-1.

The shop is still there as of the writing of the above article (mid-2012, that would be), in the same location, albeit with a new name and under different ownership, seeing as how the great Ben Hardy passed away in 1994. Betcha didn’t see all that coming, now did ya? And I truly hope you didn’t think for a moment I’d leave out one last cultural lodestone immortalized in the film.

For whatever it’s worth, I always dug the minimalistic, cut-down lines of the Billy-bike bobjob way more than the near-parodically stretched, raked, and extended 60s chopper archetype represented by the Captain America machine. Two beautiful bikes, two completely different stylistic approaches, brought together in one unforgettable movie masterpiece. Taken for all in all, Easy Rider is as 100% all-American as apple pie, hot dogs, and hog-leg Colt .45 wheelguns; it could never have happened in any other time or place.

Nitpicking update! One decidedly trivial flub-up from the early part of the movie that has always irked me disproportionately is when Billy chides Captain America for being incautious about gassing up his bike, saying “Man, all the money we have is riding inside that peanut tank.” No, gawddammit, it is NOT a “peanut tank,” Billy boy. That’s the nickname for the original Sportster gas tanks, like thus:

As any fool can see without half trying, the American-flagged receptacle adorning Wyatt’s bike is actually a Mustang tank, to wit:

The Mustang tank is so-monikered because of its origin—namely, on the pioneering Mustang mini-motorcycle, a cute li’l thang that went the way of the dodo back in 1965 after a tragically abbreviated nineteen-year run during which it somehow never found its market niche, despite a plethora of innovative technical advances such as being the first American motorcycle of any size or type to feature the now-ubiquitous telescopic-fork front suspension.

The noble Mustang name lives on in its beautifully understated fuel tank, an unforeseen legacy that’s still available for most makes of big bikes from various aftermarket companies today. It’s been a go-to favorite with more discriminating and tasteful Harley customizers since the 60s. Myself, I’ve run a Mustang tank on every Sporty I’ve owned except for the first and last ones—what is that, three of ’em, four? Whatever, I absolutely adore the things, have ever since I first got hipped to their existence by an ad in the once-glorious Easyriders magazine.

For one thing, the Mustang has a much higher capacity than the stock Sporty “peanut” go-juice tank, which holds a measly gallon or so—some .9, others 1.3, depending on the year. That translates to no more than ninety miles or so before you have to make a stop for a refill. Which, actually, was just jake with me, since an hour and a half of having your teeth rattled and your bones jarred by those old Ironheads on a daylong putt with your local wolfpack was quite enough for anybody, thanks. By the time you’d gone through your peanut tank’s capacity and switched the petcock (Pingel Power-Flo, of course; no shoddy stock PoS will suffice) over to reserve (14-15 more miles at best), you were good and READY to climb off and unkink your aching legs and back a little.

Yeah, while you glided to the nearest pump sucking fumes the Big Twin ironbutts’ unwieldy 5-gallon fatbobs would still be well over half full, so you could count on catching the usual ration of good-natured shit for your “dirt bike” or “woman’s” bike’s short legs from them. But who the hell cares what those Geezer Glide pricks think anyway? Let ‘em snigger, let ‘em chortle to their hearts’ content; their ol’ ladies will be pestering you at the bar later on for a leg-wettin’ thrill-hop packing on the p-pad (“p” for pillion, although some mischievous wags swear it actually stands for pussy, and as all Sportster riders know, neither side is entirely wrong) of your fleet little speed-demon, and everybody knows it too. When some horny, sexy biker bitch is reaching around from behind you to fondle your throbbing erection through the thin fabric of your worn, grease-stained jeans as you rip down a lonely back road, the last laugh will be yours.

Ask me how I know. Never mind, don’t, I ain’t gonna tell ya.

For another, the Mustang tank’s curvaceous good looks simultaneously offset and complement the rest of the Sportster’s no-frills, bareknuckle-brawler savagery, making what was for me a perfectly irresistible aesthetic combination. Plus, back when I bolted on my very first prized Mustang the tanks had fallen so far out of contemporary vogue as to be downright rare; almost nobody who saw mine in those days—be they old-school scooter trash or cake-eating-civilian cager—even knew what the hell it was, although they all liked it. Or they said they did, at any rate, which was good enough to suit me. I certainly did, and as the builder, owner, and rider, my opinion was the only one that mattered.

It still is, I still do, and if I had a Sporty today there would almost certainly be a Mustang tank, in flat-black rattlecan sprayed on by yrs trly etc, perched saucily on the upper frame rail between the top triple-clamp and the stiff, uncomfortable nut-buster of a seat. Or there soon would be, you betcher. Even though I’m too old for that sort of thing nowadays, hey, that’s just how I roll, people.

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