Harley Warranties & Decomposing Women, by Christopher in Oregon

Guys,

I was reading @ Happy Bachelors before retiring, and I found THIS gem by Christopher in Oregon. This is good stuff! Enjoy...

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Fellows,

It feels good to be back. Truly. I believe, if you don't mind, I shall stick around. If that's okay. Unless some other disaster befalls a friend, or worse yet, little old me.

My thoughts today revolve around a large 800 pound black behemoth sitting in my garage. No, not a woman. Worse. A Harley.

Come this December, I will have been the proud owner of this mass of Milwaukee metal for five years. It's certainly not the only Harley I've owned, but it's the one that I've had longer than any other Harley. When I bought it, it came with a two-year warranty, and naturally, like any discerning motorcyclist, I purchased at great expense, the extended warranty. It came in handy more times than I thought possible.

However, something happened. The warranty ran out. Terror of terrors. A Harley with no warranty. In my possession. Scary thought.

True to form, once the warranty expired, it's as if my beloved Electra Glide has started to fall apart mechanically and electronically. One thing after another. Most recently, it was the stator. What the heck is a stator? I don't know, but it cost me $725 bucks to replace it. Plus, I have found out that stator's sometimes go bad several times a year on some Harley's.

Hmm. Hadn't figured on this. My Beemer and my Hondas and my Kymcos ran and ran and ran and ran. Reliably.

Which brings me to a point. An epiphany, I suppose, about women and how they relate to Harley's. No, I'm not talking about women and their obsession with vibrating Harley motors. I'm talking about how once the newness wears off, the product starts falling apart. A Harley and a woman are much alike. Both can be pretty, sound nice, and be fun to ride hard, but neither is reliable or trustworthy. Either will betray you when you least expect it.

But my line of reasoning goes one step further.

Cost. $$$. Dollars and cents. Money.

The actual expense of maintaining a deteriorating thing, be it a Harley or a woman, that is only going to fall apart at a rapidly increasing pace. My service record for my Harley over the last almost five years, including accessories, reads like a phone book. It's huge. Lest you think I unfairly factor in accessories into the equation, try being married and see how many "accessories" and shiny trinkets you end up buying on your way to the poor house. It adds up. Fast.

A woman's body, like a Harley, starts to fall apart once the ink is barely dry on the contract. At first, it's hidden. You don't really see the process taking place. A little trouble starting one day. A little cough at idle. A minor thing breaking or falling off. Then, one day, the process is no longer hidden. It becomes glaringly obvious that you've married, er, purchased, a lemon. A big fat, quivering cellulite-laden lemon.

And it ain't gonna get any better.

Women decay fast. Really, really fast. If you think a Harley falls to pieces, and they DO, I can assure you, then you have a brief glimmer into your future if you get married.

Fine, so you say have health insurance with a small deductible. It won't be THAT bad, will it? Not really?

Ah, think again.

Do you know what it's like to spend your spare time hauling a woman to the doctor? Then another doctor? And another? Do you know what it's like to sit for hours in the lobby waiting for her to emerge from her latest visit? I do. You sit there watching other men and their fat wives waddling to and fro. You get bored, so you watch the kids in the lobby playing. Uh, no. Better not. Might go to jail. Why do they only have women's magazines in the lobby? Nary a Cycle World to be found. So you watch the fish in the aquarium. Wishing you were in the tank. Swimming gracefully without a care in the world. Then she emerges with a scowl. A little bag full of sample pills and a fistful of prescriptions.

Next stop: the pharmacy. Another line to wait in. What? They can't get the pills ready now? You've got to come back tomorrow? But you wanted to relax tomorrow. Oh, no. You're MARRIED now.

Side effects? She can't sleep because the pills make her nervous and irritable. Another trip to the doctor. Another trip to the pharmacist. More lines. More deductibles. More side-effects. More sleepless nights.

What, you wanted sex tonight? Just a handjob, please? You pig. Don't you know she doesn't feel sexy when she is sick? Sick? You thought she was okay. Just a minor rash. Or something. But, no. She's a woman, and a woman has Problems. Female Problems, which is really YOUR fault, anyway. You pig.

Displacia? What the heck is that? Your wife has displacia? You find out that it's because she slept around a lot before she met you, and now her vagina is going to be a test lab for a few years. No sex for you. Pig. (and you thought she was a virgin when you met her) Do you know what a woman is like when she is recovering from surgery, or worse yet, a yeast infection? How about a hysterectomy? Or breast cancer that one-in-eight eventually get? Do you know what it's like to try and sleep in the same bed with a woman who just had surgery? I don't know personally, but I've heard. You lie there, afraid to turn over in bed because it will disturb her sleep. You have to get up and pee? Think again. You might wake Her Highness up, and you musn't do that. You selfish pig. You should have peed before you went to sleep. But you're over forty, and you have to pee several times at night. Tough. Hold it in, or there will be hell to pay. Real hell.

Do you know what it's like to have to change your bed-ridden wife's diapers? Morning, noon, and night? Day after day? Month after month? Year after year? Can you imagine the smell? The filth? Carrying her soiled body to the tub to wash her, as she is berating you for being... you. All the while your own health deteriorates from stress. The endless monotony. You pray for death. Your own. Or hers. It doesn't matter. Anything to be free. Time passes so agonizingly slowly when you are blessed with a sick wife. Every tick of the clock seems to mock you. Fool. Tick. Fool. Tick. Fool.

Those words you so lightly spoke years ago "In sickness and in health...." Now they come back to haunt you.

There is no light at the end of the tunnel. It goes on and on until one of you is dead. Endless, agonizing drudgery. No reprieve. On one of your endless trips to the pharmacy you look wistfully at a man you see riding by alone on his motorcycle. Knowing he has a freedom you dare not even dream about. It's far too painful.

What? Your insurance won't pay for this new medication? Two-hundred dollars? For pills? Every month. Surely the pharmacist is wrong. Nope, he says. Look right here. Not covered. You could call your doctor, he says, to try something else. No. Better not. Oh, almost forgot the Kotex. Gotta have Kotex. "Heavy days" has taken on a whole new meaning to you. What does the pharmacist have for migraines? Yours, or hers he asks? Hers, you respond. Ah, he says. What does he mean, ah? Is he married? No ring on his finger. Maybe he's smart. Maybe he's a bachelor. Maybe......what's that? I need to see my wife's doctor for another prescription for migraine headaches? Might interact with the $200 a bottle pills, he says. Can't have that. Might kill the wife.

Sigh. You should be so lucky.

You finally drag yourself home, Kotex in tow. What? She wanted Tampons? Back you go. What? The doctor's office called while you were gone. Your wife is now diabetic. From all the weight she has gained. Insulin? Test strips? HOW much is this costing? We have to take a class? To teach us how we are now going to eat? But you're not diabetic, you think. Why should YOU have to give up pies and cakes?

Selfish pig.

Plus, her blood pressure is skyrocketing. She IS a size eighteen, after all. She's not eating more, though. Or so she says. It's her thyroid. Always the thyroid. What? She'll probably get bigger until they straighten out her thyroid, she tells you, as she munches away. You look at her sitting there. Fat. Red-faced. Wearing a mumu. Eating. Always eating.

Thighs. My, how they've grown you think as you get a glimpse of her pasty-white legs peeking out of the mumu.

How about the dentist? Ah, you didn't know your companies health insurance wouldn't cover all of her dental work, did you? What's that? Five-thousand dollars to fix her teeth? And YOU have to pay for it? There goes that big screen you wanted. Ah, hell. There's some consolation. She probably wouldn't have let you buy it, anyway. And if she did, you'd only watch what SHE liked. Possibly the dentist can remove those fangs while he's working on her.....

Ah, well. At least you'll be in love. If you love a woman, and she loves you, it doesn't matter, right? Ah, love is grand. It will carry you through any adversity. These trials will just bring you closer together. Nothing spells lovin' like seeing your wife's teeth all yanked out in anticipation of having dentures installed in her yap.

Gotta run. It's gettin' too damn deep around here.

Christopher in Oregon

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Let this be a warning to you. Good night now...

MarkyMark