Riding my brand new motorcycle in the rain without a helmet down the twisting jungle road that leads to my university is clearly life threatening, but less so than your regular assisted suicide that your regular Euro-sissy regularly insists you have a right to. So, I'm clearly within my rights. As I speed past palm trees and sugar plantations, I thank God that Mexico is the kind of place that offers fewer safety helmets but more wind in your hair. My beloved mother is dead. I sure as hell don't want any politico presuming to take her place, whether offering the ruler to spank or the breast to suck.
I have access to better breasts (and better spankings). The soft pillow that cushions my back on my sweet ride is Laura, who studies biotech at the university every day and allows me to study her biotechnology every night. We have a deal. She can say no to sex, but then she gets it two times, so she has some choice in the matter, but I still get to be the ravaging jaguar that makes our romance a little dangerous without her having to read lame novels like
The Horny High School Vampire Trilogy or
Fifty Shades of Gay.
Laura's an oppressed woman. If I ever let the hottie catch her breath, she might leave me for a better man, so the hot engine vibrating her thighs and cool wind whipping her hair is all the exhilaration I can give her during daylight hours. I'm not asking readers to feel sorry for me. However, checks made out to the Lyn Fuchs Home For Wayward Girls will produce more smiles than that bureaucratic nightmare Save The Children and elicit more sighs than that bleeding heart Make A Wish Foundation. We can't offer uranium like Hillary Clinton's charity, but we offer much better karma, and you'll never get a newsletter with a photo of me in a pantsuit.
Back to my other fine ride. It's not just about the journey or the destination. The transport matters as well. The world looks different on a motorcycle, an airplane, or a fit pair of legs. As David Cassidy's spirit cruises into the next life on the Partridge Family bus, he may look lame to some, but his multi-colored ride symbolized the freedom of the open road to his generation. Another 70s artist Steve Miller got to the heart of what our travels are really about: "I wanna fly like an eagle to the sea. Fly like an eagle and let my spirit carry me. I wanna fly like an eagle till I'm free."
Terrestrial journeys are awesome but never truly satisfy, because the spirit hungers for a higher realm that can only be reached by the journey we fear to take. Yet, take it we will. Whether you're riding on a motorcycle with no helmet or on a hospital bed with every life-extending accoutrement, you've got a ticket to ride. The only choice you make is whether to enjoy that ride. That's a decision I've already made, and to the others who live with gusto I say: "It's a pleasure to share the road!"
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