There’s an old song that says It never rains in California / But girl, don’t they warn ya / It pours man it pours. And it’s true; it doesn’t rain for most of the year down here, but when it does rain it does it with a vengeance. Well, it’s raining tonight and I’m so tickled about it that I could die.

It’s the freshly cleaned garage, you see. And the motorcycles in it. The dry, bone dry, not being rained on, safely parked on a flat clean surface with a watertight shingled roof high over head motorcycles. They’re dry, you see. They’re not being rained on. At all.

Oh, it’s a glorious thing. It’s so orgasmically fantastic that I may need to go change my pants.

It’s raining outside and my bikes are dry. Oooo-oooo-ooohhhh!!!! Pllllllllllbbbbttttttttttt!!!!!!!!!!!

.
.
.
.
.

Aaaaahhhhh…..

I need a cigarette.