RoosterBoots Likes Uggo
#1
02-03-2010, 09:05 PM
RoosterBoots Likes Uggo
“Uggo.” I observed. “Uggo’s a good name!”
“Not a chance,” Miz Roo shot back. “We’re not changing its name to ‘Uggo’ and that’s FINAL!”
Freeze frame. Pan right to reveal a well-groomed white guy in a 60’s haircut and a dark suit, hands crossed, smoking a cigarette. He speaks in a laconic monotone:
“Submitted for your consideration, a husband and wife driving southbound on a thin ribbon of Mississippi road. They have been watching the broken taillights of the pulpwood hauler in front of them and discussing names for a motorcycle. Lost in thought, they’re about to find that the long list of names never gets shorter. It’s just a speedbump on the road to the Twilight Zone.”
Miz Roo had decided that my 1200 Sportster, “Iron Maiden”, was hers. I had agreed. Shoot me now, because the first thing she wanted to do was to change its name.
Naming a bike is not easy. Their names need to mean something. A bike is more than the sum of its parts divided by the VIN number. Every Harley has a personality, maybe even a soul. Their names give them life. If they’re good names.
The moment Miz Roo wrote out a check for her blue-and-chrome Anniversary Edition XL883, she spent nearly five months coming up with the perfect alias. We’d think up names and spin them around in our heads, let ‘em fall out and roll around the larynx for a day or two until they got all old and wet and nasty, and then we’d move on to the next one down on the list.
“New Bike” became “Blue Overload”. That got dropped in favor of “Bluewinkle”, which morphed into “The Miz-monator”, which begat “Gypsy”, which begat “La Petite”, which Miz Roo never once uttered in public.
The little 883 remained a nameless orphan until one cool August morning when we attached a Betty Boop doll to the sissy bar for luck. A week later, someone rested an old and well-used helmet on the little doll, transferring a pound of forehead grease onto the previously pristine Betty.
Thus was born “Dirty Betty.” The name stuck like cold mud. Miz Roo was particularly fond of it and talked about her bike as though it were a child, a relative, or even a beloved pet.
“I’m gonna go ride Dirty Betty around.”
“Dirty Betty needs new tires.”
“Dirty Betty won’t start.”
“Dirty Betty still won’t start. I’m taking your bike.”
When Miz Roo said “I’m taking your bike,” I heard something totally different. So I sort of chuckled and said “Heh, heh! Sure, OK!”
Soon, I had more trouble than I wanted to juggle. With too many Harleys in the garage, I had long ago selected “Iron Maiden” for disposal.
I had put classified ads on Craig’s List. When the bike didn’t sell, I relisted it. Then I relisted it again. I tried lowering the price. I tried raising the price. I tried graceful English. I tried artful abbreviations. I tried hyperbole. Having nothing to lose, I tried bein’ myself:
“Clear title, ready to sign over. A manly bike, girls watching you
go by will throw their clothes at you, exposing their tender parts
to the cold night air and the hot stares of envious bystanders.
Accelerate with caution, as the last time the throttle was opened
fully the earth stopped turning for nearly a millisecond. The
XL1200R Sportster is a muscular-looking machine. Even with the
engine off and the kickstand down, it makes little children burst into
tears and run screaming into their mothers' arms. The secret to true
happiness is to give me your money and then drive off on this
smokey-gold beauty. Photo below was taken after bike was parked
next to a dead squirrel. As you can plainly see, the little feller came
back to life and scampered happily away, just seconds before the
picture was taken. Serious inquiries only.”
I got three lucrative offers from Nigeria.
Three weeks ago, me and Miz Roo paused while driving through Meridian for a light-hearted discussion of poverty, karma and the afterlife with Georgia Foreman, one of Miz Roo’s girlfriends. At some point during the banter, the topic of motorcycles came up (as it usually does).
We spoke lovingly about our little Harley collection. Georgia listened attentively, and then moaned, “Oh, I’d LOVE a Harley! But….”
Yes, there it is. The “But” word. Literally ANYTHING can follow “But”, and it’s usually bad.
For example:
“But I don’t have any money.” (But Georgia didn’t say this)
“But I’m too old.” (But Georgia didn’t say that)
“But I’m too short.”
Yes, she really did say that. And then she said, “The only bike I’ve ever sat on that really fits me is ‘Dirty Betty’.”
Fortune favors the bold. “Wanna buy ‘Dirty Betty’?” I asked her. I should have briefed the wife.
Miz Roo lost her color and swooned, teetering momentarily on weak knees. Georgia and I stepped back out of her way. Miz Roo’s top feathers stuck straight up. Her head snapped in my direction, making a popping noise. She twisted her body like a cat.
“What are you doing?” she hissed furtively.
“Sell ‘Betty’!” I hissed back, under my breath.
“Oh, I could NEVER…” she growled, covering her mouth with one hand.
“Sell ‘Betty’ and I’ll give you ‘Iron Maiden’,” I bargained quietly, trying not to move my lips.
“I’m standing right here and I can hear what you guys are saying,” Georgia whispered.
“Dirty Betty’s not for sale!” cried Miz Roo, using the same tone of voice she’d use to announce that a kitten had wandered out into traffic.
Georgia missed the third word. “OOOOH! How much?” she squealed, clapping her hands and twisting left and right, unable to contain her glee.
Miz Roo un-swooned, suddenly realizing that by selling Dirty Betty she would own Iron Maiden outright. Iron Maiden was a bigger bike. Iron Maiden was a newer bike. She bunched her eyebrows into a serious knot. “Middies gotta go,” she told me.
“What are middies?” Georgia asked. Miz Roo explained that Dirty Betty had forward controls, but her NEW bike had stock “middies”. And stock mufflers - yup, those would have to go, too. Oh, and it needed leather tassels. And a new saddle!
We still owned “Dirty Betty”. We still owned “Iron Maiden”. We were still poor. Nothing had actually changed, except that now we had an agreement with Georgia, who was going to have to ask her aunt for a quick loan. That was enough for Miz Roo. She was going shoppin’!
But first things first. She hated that bike's name. “There’s NO DAMN WAY I’m gonna sit on anything named “Iron Maiden!” she told me as we drove home. The smoky gold Sporty with the brand new gas tank was about to lose her maiden name.
As it turned out, renaming “Iron Maiden” was quite a chore. Miz Roo couldn’t think of anything. I dredged up nothing but duds. “Goldie” and “Big Guy” didn’t last long. Ditto “Rose”, “Rosie”, “Lilly”, “Gilded Lilly”, “Zipper”, “Golden Zipper”, “Gelding”, “Gilded Gelding”, “Guilty Gelding”, and my personal favorite. . . “Guilty Zipper.”
“The problem,” Miz Roo explained to me, “is that the bike is ugly.” We slowed to a crawl behind a pulpwood truck with one working taillight
“Manly,” I corrected.
“OK, it’s too manly for its name,” she argued on. “It’s definitely not feminine! Not like Betty.” She bemoaned the large bike’s color, the lack of chrome, the ugly decal on the tank.
I pointed out its torque and its rubber engine mounts. I mentioned that the 1200 would have long ago passed this damned log truck blocking the lane ahead of us.
“It’s not pretty, not like Betty,” she whined. “Iron Maiden is ugly! UGGO ugly!”
“So keep Dirty Betty,” I answered. “We never actually promised to sell the bike to Georgia. If it makes you happy, just keep it.”
That new option made sense. The argument cooled down a bit. Miz Roo said she’d probably keep her bright blue girl bike.
“Just one thing,” I added. “Quit driving around on Iron Maiden.”
“What!?!”
“Stay off Iron Maiden so’s I can sell her,” I repeated.
Miz Roo choked back her fury into crossed arms.
“Uggo.” I observed. “Uggo’s a good name!”
(Excerpted from "The Incredibly Normal Adventures of RoosterBoots")
“Not a chance,” Miz Roo shot back. “We’re not changing its name to ‘Uggo’ and that’s FINAL!”
Freeze frame. Pan right to reveal a well-groomed white guy in a 60’s haircut and a dark suit, hands crossed, smoking a cigarette. He speaks in a laconic monotone:
“Submitted for your consideration, a husband and wife driving southbound on a thin ribbon of Mississippi road. They have been watching the broken taillights of the pulpwood hauler in front of them and discussing names for a motorcycle. Lost in thought, they’re about to find that the long list of names never gets shorter. It’s just a speedbump on the road to the Twilight Zone.”
Miz Roo had decided that my 1200 Sportster, “Iron Maiden”, was hers. I had agreed. Shoot me now, because the first thing she wanted to do was to change its name.
Naming a bike is not easy. Their names need to mean something. A bike is more than the sum of its parts divided by the VIN number. Every Harley has a personality, maybe even a soul. Their names give them life. If they’re good names.
The moment Miz Roo wrote out a check for her blue-and-chrome Anniversary Edition XL883, she spent nearly five months coming up with the perfect alias. We’d think up names and spin them around in our heads, let ‘em fall out and roll around the larynx for a day or two until they got all old and wet and nasty, and then we’d move on to the next one down on the list.
“New Bike” became “Blue Overload”. That got dropped in favor of “Bluewinkle”, which morphed into “The Miz-monator”, which begat “Gypsy”, which begat “La Petite”, which Miz Roo never once uttered in public.
The little 883 remained a nameless orphan until one cool August morning when we attached a Betty Boop doll to the sissy bar for luck. A week later, someone rested an old and well-used helmet on the little doll, transferring a pound of forehead grease onto the previously pristine Betty.
Thus was born “Dirty Betty.” The name stuck like cold mud. Miz Roo was particularly fond of it and talked about her bike as though it were a child, a relative, or even a beloved pet.
“I’m gonna go ride Dirty Betty around.”
“Dirty Betty needs new tires.”
“Dirty Betty won’t start.”
“Dirty Betty still won’t start. I’m taking your bike.”
When Miz Roo said “I’m taking your bike,” I heard something totally different. So I sort of chuckled and said “Heh, heh! Sure, OK!”
Soon, I had more trouble than I wanted to juggle. With too many Harleys in the garage, I had long ago selected “Iron Maiden” for disposal.
I had put classified ads on Craig’s List. When the bike didn’t sell, I relisted it. Then I relisted it again. I tried lowering the price. I tried raising the price. I tried graceful English. I tried artful abbreviations. I tried hyperbole. Having nothing to lose, I tried bein’ myself:
“Clear title, ready to sign over. A manly bike, girls watching you
go by will throw their clothes at you, exposing their tender parts
to the cold night air and the hot stares of envious bystanders.
Accelerate with caution, as the last time the throttle was opened
fully the earth stopped turning for nearly a millisecond. The
XL1200R Sportster is a muscular-looking machine. Even with the
engine off and the kickstand down, it makes little children burst into
tears and run screaming into their mothers' arms. The secret to true
happiness is to give me your money and then drive off on this
smokey-gold beauty. Photo below was taken after bike was parked
next to a dead squirrel. As you can plainly see, the little feller came
back to life and scampered happily away, just seconds before the
picture was taken. Serious inquiries only.”
I got three lucrative offers from Nigeria.
Three weeks ago, me and Miz Roo paused while driving through Meridian for a light-hearted discussion of poverty, karma and the afterlife with Georgia Foreman, one of Miz Roo’s girlfriends. At some point during the banter, the topic of motorcycles came up (as it usually does).
We spoke lovingly about our little Harley collection. Georgia listened attentively, and then moaned, “Oh, I’d LOVE a Harley! But….”
Yes, there it is. The “But” word. Literally ANYTHING can follow “But”, and it’s usually bad.
For example:
“But I don’t have any money.” (But Georgia didn’t say this)
“But I’m too old.” (But Georgia didn’t say that)
“But I’m too short.”
Yes, she really did say that. And then she said, “The only bike I’ve ever sat on that really fits me is ‘Dirty Betty’.”
Fortune favors the bold. “Wanna buy ‘Dirty Betty’?” I asked her. I should have briefed the wife.
Miz Roo lost her color and swooned, teetering momentarily on weak knees. Georgia and I stepped back out of her way. Miz Roo’s top feathers stuck straight up. Her head snapped in my direction, making a popping noise. She twisted her body like a cat.
“What are you doing?” she hissed furtively.
“Sell ‘Betty’!” I hissed back, under my breath.
“Oh, I could NEVER…” she growled, covering her mouth with one hand.
“Sell ‘Betty’ and I’ll give you ‘Iron Maiden’,” I bargained quietly, trying not to move my lips.
“I’m standing right here and I can hear what you guys are saying,” Georgia whispered.
“Dirty Betty’s not for sale!” cried Miz Roo, using the same tone of voice she’d use to announce that a kitten had wandered out into traffic.
Georgia missed the third word. “OOOOH! How much?” she squealed, clapping her hands and twisting left and right, unable to contain her glee.
Miz Roo un-swooned, suddenly realizing that by selling Dirty Betty she would own Iron Maiden outright. Iron Maiden was a bigger bike. Iron Maiden was a newer bike. She bunched her eyebrows into a serious knot. “Middies gotta go,” she told me.
“What are middies?” Georgia asked. Miz Roo explained that Dirty Betty had forward controls, but her NEW bike had stock “middies”. And stock mufflers - yup, those would have to go, too. Oh, and it needed leather tassels. And a new saddle!
We still owned “Dirty Betty”. We still owned “Iron Maiden”. We were still poor. Nothing had actually changed, except that now we had an agreement with Georgia, who was going to have to ask her aunt for a quick loan. That was enough for Miz Roo. She was going shoppin’!
But first things first. She hated that bike's name. “There’s NO DAMN WAY I’m gonna sit on anything named “Iron Maiden!” she told me as we drove home. The smoky gold Sporty with the brand new gas tank was about to lose her maiden name.
As it turned out, renaming “Iron Maiden” was quite a chore. Miz Roo couldn’t think of anything. I dredged up nothing but duds. “Goldie” and “Big Guy” didn’t last long. Ditto “Rose”, “Rosie”, “Lilly”, “Gilded Lilly”, “Zipper”, “Golden Zipper”, “Gelding”, “Gilded Gelding”, “Guilty Gelding”, and my personal favorite. . . “Guilty Zipper.”
“The problem,” Miz Roo explained to me, “is that the bike is ugly.” We slowed to a crawl behind a pulpwood truck with one working taillight
“Manly,” I corrected.
“OK, it’s too manly for its name,” she argued on. “It’s definitely not feminine! Not like Betty.” She bemoaned the large bike’s color, the lack of chrome, the ugly decal on the tank.
I pointed out its torque and its rubber engine mounts. I mentioned that the 1200 would have long ago passed this damned log truck blocking the lane ahead of us.
“It’s not pretty, not like Betty,” she whined. “Iron Maiden is ugly! UGGO ugly!”
“So keep Dirty Betty,” I answered. “We never actually promised to sell the bike to Georgia. If it makes you happy, just keep it.”
That new option made sense. The argument cooled down a bit. Miz Roo said she’d probably keep her bright blue girl bike.
“Just one thing,” I added. “Quit driving around on Iron Maiden.”
“What!?!”
“Stay off Iron Maiden so’s I can sell her,” I repeated.
Miz Roo choked back her fury into crossed arms.
“Uggo.” I observed. “Uggo’s a good name!”
(Excerpted from "The Incredibly Normal Adventures of RoosterBoots")
Last edited by Roosterboots; 02-03-2010 at 09:12 PM.
#3
02-04-2010, 03:28 PM
Road Captain
It’s always a pleasure to read from "The Incredibly Normal Adventures of RoosterBoots"
If you published a book … I’d buy it.
Give my best to Mz Roo !
If you published a book … I’d buy it.
Give my best to Mz Roo !
#4
02-04-2010, 04:23 PM
I dunno, dude. I done seen yer best. It's a right purdy bike, t'is! You sure you want me to give it to HER? You prolly won't get it back!
#6
02-04-2010, 06:16 PM
Outstanding HDF Member
Roo, just like "Golden Gully" or whatever you decided, your posts are golden....thanks
Tell Ms Roo we said hi.
Tell Ms Roo we said hi.
#7
02-04-2010, 06:50 PM
Hi, Ron! Miz Roo bids me to extend her compliments to the Royal Couple, and to cordially invite you to join us at the Moscow Ball when the weather moderates a touch.
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#9
02-04-2010, 08:15 PM
Road Master
Roo I would imagine, right now, your name is mud. The only way I see to rectify the situation ,would be to let Miz Roo keep Dirty Betty, for a every day rider, and turn Iron Maiden into a one off custom, for her Sunday foreys into the mississippi countryside.
Keep pushing your luck, and this may be the closest thing to a harley she lets you have.
.
Good read ,glad to see you punching keys again.
By the way ,good to hear Papa Roo won his battle, and here's to his
continued good health
.
Keep pushing your luck, and this may be the closest thing to a harley she lets you have.
.
Good read ,glad to see you punching keys again.
By the way ,good to hear Papa Roo won his battle, and here's to his
continued good health
.
