11-08-2001, 11:22 AM
I know its a little early for this, but I just wrote this and dont want to forget to post it later........BTW, this is a true story...
'Twas a couple of weeks before Christmas, when all through the dunes
Not a single quad was a ripping, under the cold December moon.
The outerwears & filters were hung to dry with care,
While the tie wraps & duct tape, held air boxes in repair.
As for me I was all drunk, and snug in my bed,
And the wife was relieved, that I hadn’t cracked open my head.
She had found the sand & beer, in my new O’Neal Racing cap,
And if I had been awake, she’d probably have passed me a slap.
When out on the campground, there arose such a noise,
It was a 2-stoke engine, I assumed it was one of my boyz.
I tried to make my way outside, and stubbed my toe on the door
I just shrugged the pain off ya know, it’s time to party some more.
With the sound of that 2-stroke, still ringing in my ears,
I stumbled around outside, until I found another beer.
When, what to my bloodshot eyes should I see,
But a fat little man, riding a slick badass shee.
With Toomey T5’s, and chrome oh so trick,
I knew in a moment that’s gotta be St. Nick.
To the bottom of the first dune, he idled that quad,
I knew that this player had some serious mods.
He revved up the engine, exhaust echoed in the sky,
And with a “HE-YAW” rebel yell, the sand started to fly.
Through first gear and second and even through third,
The front wheels stayed aloft, is what I did observe.
To the crest of the dune, he cut the wheels like a goof,
And what lay in his wake, was a ten foot high roost.
I stammered and gasped, with jaw open wide,
As he headed back down, to where I did reside.
To the face of a jump, where he let the hammer drop,
And cleared my thirty foot fifth wheel, like a small tabletop.
He circled around, and pulled up in front of my bunk,
Shut down the motor, and yelled, “What’s up punk.”
”Is that your ride I see sitting over there,
How bout you jump on it, and we go catch some air.”
“Or better yet still,” he said with a smile,
”Lets go race em’ in back, for a good one-eighth of a mile.”
Shocked and amazed, I started to speak,
”You don’t want none of this old man, you’ll be eatin’ roost for a week.”
“Ho Ho Ho,” he laughed, “So you wanna talk smack!?
Well I’ve got a little something that your bike does lack.
It’s called a rider with skill and with style and with grace
I’d like to do this tonight, so come along and make hast.”
So I donned my riding gear, I wasn’t gonna take that crap,
I responded with “Big words for a man with no lap.”
So we jetted out across the dunes, up and down hills,
Warming up our bikes and perfecting our skills.
We came upon a utility quad, on the seat a small elf,
”This must be the starting line,” I thought to myself.
The elf raised his hand and so did the revs on our metal steeds,
I found my gear, nodded my head, and tucked in my knees.
The elf dropped his little hand, like a logger would an axe,
I opened the throttle, dumped the clutch, and shifted my weight back.
I slapped through the gears, one, two, and three,
It seems I had gotten the hole-shot on Santa’s ported shee.
Just then I saw something magical, out the corner of my eye,
St. Nick’s shee found the power band and just went right on by.
He beat me by three bike lengths, maybe even more,
I was still intoxicated, and so I really can’t be to sure.
I rode on over to give him his props, for a race well won,
And to take a look at what mods he had, and see if I could get some.
After closer inspection I noticed some lettering etched into the case,
It read “Powered by Elvin Magic, the Only Way to Race”.
“Well you old Fart, you old Cheat, no wonder you beat me,”
Just as I said this, with a smile on his face, he began to flee.
I shouted out after him, “Hey you fraudulent hack,
"Come On Back Next Year,
And Let’s Put Them On The Track."
(then we’ll see who’s gonna beat who…….with ya old ***!…..yeah, that’s what I though, keep on driving away………he’s scared now, ya see that………etc, etc………)
Happy Early Holidays All
'Twas a couple of weeks before Christmas, when all through the dunes
Not a single quad was a ripping, under the cold December moon.
The outerwears & filters were hung to dry with care,
While the tie wraps & duct tape, held air boxes in repair.
As for me I was all drunk, and snug in my bed,
And the wife was relieved, that I hadn’t cracked open my head.
She had found the sand & beer, in my new O’Neal Racing cap,
And if I had been awake, she’d probably have passed me a slap.
When out on the campground, there arose such a noise,
It was a 2-stoke engine, I assumed it was one of my boyz.
I tried to make my way outside, and stubbed my toe on the door
I just shrugged the pain off ya know, it’s time to party some more.
With the sound of that 2-stroke, still ringing in my ears,
I stumbled around outside, until I found another beer.
When, what to my bloodshot eyes should I see,
But a fat little man, riding a slick badass shee.
With Toomey T5’s, and chrome oh so trick,
I knew in a moment that’s gotta be St. Nick.
To the bottom of the first dune, he idled that quad,
I knew that this player had some serious mods.
He revved up the engine, exhaust echoed in the sky,
And with a “HE-YAW” rebel yell, the sand started to fly.
Through first gear and second and even through third,
The front wheels stayed aloft, is what I did observe.
To the crest of the dune, he cut the wheels like a goof,
And what lay in his wake, was a ten foot high roost.
I stammered and gasped, with jaw open wide,
As he headed back down, to where I did reside.
To the face of a jump, where he let the hammer drop,
And cleared my thirty foot fifth wheel, like a small tabletop.
He circled around, and pulled up in front of my bunk,
Shut down the motor, and yelled, “What’s up punk.”
”Is that your ride I see sitting over there,
How bout you jump on it, and we go catch some air.”
“Or better yet still,” he said with a smile,
”Lets go race em’ in back, for a good one-eighth of a mile.”
Shocked and amazed, I started to speak,
”You don’t want none of this old man, you’ll be eatin’ roost for a week.”
“Ho Ho Ho,” he laughed, “So you wanna talk smack!?
Well I’ve got a little something that your bike does lack.
It’s called a rider with skill and with style and with grace
I’d like to do this tonight, so come along and make hast.”
So I donned my riding gear, I wasn’t gonna take that crap,
I responded with “Big words for a man with no lap.”
So we jetted out across the dunes, up and down hills,
Warming up our bikes and perfecting our skills.
We came upon a utility quad, on the seat a small elf,
”This must be the starting line,” I thought to myself.
The elf raised his hand and so did the revs on our metal steeds,
I found my gear, nodded my head, and tucked in my knees.
The elf dropped his little hand, like a logger would an axe,
I opened the throttle, dumped the clutch, and shifted my weight back.
I slapped through the gears, one, two, and three,
It seems I had gotten the hole-shot on Santa’s ported shee.
Just then I saw something magical, out the corner of my eye,
St. Nick’s shee found the power band and just went right on by.
He beat me by three bike lengths, maybe even more,
I was still intoxicated, and so I really can’t be to sure.
I rode on over to give him his props, for a race well won,
And to take a look at what mods he had, and see if I could get some.
After closer inspection I noticed some lettering etched into the case,
It read “Powered by Elvin Magic, the Only Way to Race”.
“Well you old Fart, you old Cheat, no wonder you beat me,”
Just as I said this, with a smile on his face, he began to flee.
I shouted out after him, “Hey you fraudulent hack,
"Come On Back Next Year,
And Let’s Put Them On The Track."
(then we’ll see who’s gonna beat who…….with ya old ***!…..yeah, that’s what I though, keep on driving away………he’s scared now, ya see that………etc, etc………)
Happy Early Holidays All