FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
CONTACT: The Helmet Hair Institute (800) WIG-FLAT

LEAKYSUMP, AL (VPI) There is pain in all of us, dear friends. A darkness woven into the soul that is located just below the deep, sinister section that pays bills. And every now and again, this pain is touched by some type of reality-based event, which causes it to be released.
Then, we all get to listen to somebody bitch and moan. Often, for days.

I recently experienced such a somebody bitching and moaning. For days. This happened to me unexpectedly, when a strange waif wandered into my well-concealed top-secret R&D center. How he got past my crack feline security force I'll never know, but he interrupted me while I was trying to add a fifth cylinder to a four-cylinder motorcycle. It's something I felt had to be done, in the interests of "more grunt off the corners" and such.

"I don't mean to bitch and moan," began the waif, "but, I mean, what were they thinking? This is an atrocity. A hideous one, at that. I am depressed. I haven't felt this bummed since the last time I paid bills. Got any cookies and creme? Or some barbecue potato spheres?"

"Zounds!" I thought out-loud to myself. "How in the name of Steve Rapp's swollen hand did this waif know about my new top-secret snack treat? I'd better find out what the heck he's talking about. Or, hit him with something heavy. First I'll listen. There's always time for violence later.

"Sit, sit, weary traveler," I said regally. "Warm your tired soul on this pile of radioactive debris from my atomic scooter project. You've a tale to tell, I'll wager, and if you'll share it with me I'll grant you my hospitality, modest though it is."

" I like you," said the waif. "You talk like a Lord of the Rings character. Bitchin'."

Based on that last utterance, I was worried that this guy might work for a motorcycle magazine based in Southern California.

Fortunately, such was not the case.

"Where do I begin," he started, as he warmed his hands over a broken fuel rod. "When I was a little boy, I fell in love with motorcycle road racing. . ."

What followed was a long, tired narrative that I'll spare you because I like you, even though you put one of those asinine dayglow windshields on your GSXR. Dork.

The waif explained his conundrum thusly: he was the world's greatest fan of a particular rider, a rider we'll just call. . . Lance.

Anyway, this guy worships Lance, and owns the same brand of motorcycle Lance rides, the same boots, leathers, toothpaste, cam-corder, aftershave, self-help guru, you name it. And obviously, he would wear a Lance replica helmet, right?

Here's where the waif became disillusioned.

It seems that Lance changed helmet brands after a new company offered him more money to wear their lid, and his new replica helmet paint scheme looks like something a member of my crack feline security force dragged in.

"It looks like sick," moaned the waif. "Or industrial waste. Industrial sick-waste. That's it. It sucks, because his old replica was cyber-bitchin on a stick. Real justy trim."

He showed me a picture of the new helmet, and it did in fact look like something they'd feed you in a small cardboard tray at a carnival.

"Wear a bag over you head when you ride," I offered.

"Dude, I did that, " he said. "The boys in my crew called me the Unknown Rider. It was O.K. for a little while. Then, I ran into a police station. Never saw the sucker."

Bummer. But you know, as weird as this squidly runt was, I did actually sympathize with his situation. I vowed to hit him with something lighter than I originally envisioned, when it became Time.

"The disturbing phenomena of ugly replica helmets is an issue second in importance only to rider safety. Oh, and umbrella girl bust development, enhancement, and/or overall physical muscle tone," explained amasuperbike.com's Modern Art Analyst and Refrigerator Magnet Maintenance Supervisor, Pablo Easel.

"Replica helmets used to be really cool, tasteful, even dynamic expressions of a rider's personality. Now, either the design people that come up with this stuff have creative sensibilities more screwed up than Doctor Suess on acid, or the personalities of the riders are as screwed up as Doctor Suess on acid and the paint schemes reflect that."

Interesting thoughts from Pablo, who talked while he created art using a old Sportster motor and some paint. He filled the crankcase up with different hues of enamel, parked it on a canvas, and fired it up with one of those cool VR1000 handlebar starter thingies. When the quivering, oil-starved beast threw a rod out the case, it spewed pigment in colorful patterns all over the canvas (along with most of the room and Easel himself). It was glorious mayhem. Creative people are often strangely violent, as well as lacking in basic hygiene skills.

"But if you don't like the replica stuff that's out there now," he continued as he toweled off and signed his work with fork oil, "just be glad you've been spared the worst. There are rejected designs that riders came up with for other riders, and some are really disturbing."

Easel showed me some of these designs, including several that resembled the business end of a gender-specific organ, close-ups of a less popular bodily orifice, and a few deeply furrowed cow pies. One design showed a cheap watch flying apart, another portrayed a fist slamming into a popular rider's face and dislodging a sponsor, and still another was a large mammary gland. A urine specimen being scrutinized my men in white coats was, curiously, a selected design for two riders from very different countries.

Back in my shop, the waif sat in the corner and moaned to himself, after eating up a fresh batch of my barbecued potato spheres.

"I don't know what I'm going to do about this," he cried. "I can't betray Lance, but what am I supposed to do? His new helmet sucks, and that's the ugly truth. I wish something, somewhere, could ease my pain."

I did. It was the least I could do. Besides, it was Time.