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outsyder18

:: 2009 3 July :: 3.47pm

"In the beginning the Universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and been widely regarded as a bad move."

Douglas Adams quotes (British comic Writer, 1952-2001)

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box

:: 2009 2 July :: 1.23am

Wow Sometimes i think Drama is the only thing that is keeping woohu alive.

On a side note whats everyone doing for the 4th?

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.j.e.s.s.

:: 2009 2 July :: 1.08am
:: Mood: thug
:: Music: best i ever had

got a house but i need new furniture why spend mine when i can spend urrs? ?
Baby you my everything you all i ever wanted.
We can do it real big.
Bigger then you ever done it.
You be up on everything.
Other hoes ain't never on it.
I want this forever, i swear i can spend whatever on it.

Cause she hold me down everytime i hit her up.
When i get right i promise that we gon live it up.
She make me beg for it till she give it up.
And I say the same thing every single time.

I say you the fucking best.
You the fucking best.
You the fucking best.
You the fucking best.
You the best i ever had.
Best I ever had.
Best I ever had.
Best I ever had.
I say you the fucking.

Know you got a roommate
Call me when its no one there
Put the key under the mat
And you know I'll be over there
(Yup) I'll be over there
Shawty, I'll be over there
I'll be hitting all the spots that u ain't even know was there
Ha. And you ain't even have to ask twice
You can have my heart or we can share it like the last slice
Always felt like you was so accustom to the fast life
Have a nigga thinking that he met you in a past life
Sweat pants, hair tied, chilling with no make up on
That's when your the prettiest
I hope that you don take it wrong
You don't even trip when friends say you ain't bringing Drake along
You know that I'm working I'll be there soon as I make it home
And she a patient in my waiting room
Never pay attention to them rumors and what they assume
And until them girls prove it
I'm the one to Never get confused with Cause.

Baby you my everything you all i ever wanted.
We can do it real big.
Bigger then you ever done it.
You be up on everything.
Other hoes ain't never on it.
I want this forever, i swear i can spend whatever on it.

Cause she hold me down everytime i hit her up.
When i get right i promise that we gon live it up.
She make me beg for it till she give it up.
And I say the same thing every single time.

I say you the fucking best.
You the fucking best.
You the fucking best.
You the fucking best.
You the best i ever had.
Best I ever had.
Best I ever had.
Best I ever had.
I say you the fucking.

Sex, Love, Pain
Baby I be on that tank shit
Buzz so big i could probably sell a blank disk
When my album drop
Bitches will buy it for the picture
And niggas will buy it too and claim they got it for they sister
Magazine paper girl
But money ain't the issue
They bring dinner to my room and ask me to initial
She call me the referee
Cause I be so official
My shirt ain't got no stripes but I can make yo pussy whistle
Like the Andy Griffith theme song
And who told you to put them jeans on
double cup love
You the one i lean on
Feeling for a fix then you should really get yo pheen on
Yea just know my condo is the crack spot
Every single show she out there repping like a mascot
Get it from the back
And make yo fucking bra strap pop
All up in yo slot until the nigga hit the jackpots

Baby you my everything you all i ever wanted.
We can do it real big.
Bigger then you ever done it.
You be up on everything.
Other hoes ain't never on it.
I want this forever, i swear i can spend whatever on it.
Baby you my everything you all i ever wanted.
We can do it real big.
Bigger then you ever done it.
You be up on everything.
Other hoes ain't never on it.
I want this forever, i swear i can spend whatever on it.


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phil-himself

:: 2009 1 July :: 6.01pm

Strange Cousins from The West will change the way you hear music

for serious

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phil-himself

:: 2009 1 July :: 4.01pm

Is there a show on Discovery that Mike Rowe doesn't voice over?

I mean that guy is awesome and he must be making some serious C Notes

Love Mike Rowe!

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phil-himself

:: 2009 1 July :: 2.10pm

This is where I say something to piss everyone off because I don't have anything better to do than argue with people on the internet.

So here it is: Testicles

that is all

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phil-himself

:: 2009 30 June :: 10.17pm

I tested my bike and it tested me

8000RPM @ 80MPH is a little scary on a windy open freeway

50HP is a lot more when it sits just in front of your legs.

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phil-himself

:: 2009 29 June :: 8.01pm

I like working on my motorcycle, it puts me at ease and peace with the world

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phil-himself

:: 2009 29 June :: 1.54am

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phil-himself

:: 2009 29 June :: 12.57am

I fucking love the internet, it pits people against each other in ways they would have otherwise never believed.

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phil-himself

:: 2009 28 June :: 11.35pm

This space is dedicated to Billy Mays, for he has greatly improved our world.

And if you disagree with me I will challenge your knowledge of infomercials, because that's the highroad thing to do on the internet these days, oh yeah but no flamewars cause that's not cool right.

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phil-himself

:: 2009 27 June :: 2.35am

Will you die on your feet or live on your knees?

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phil-himself

:: 2009 26 June :: 12.26am

You are now breathing manually.

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skife

:: 2009 23 June :: 11.54pm

hunter s thompson - sausage creature


There are some things nobody needs in this world, and a bright-red, hunch-back, warp-speed 900cc cafe racer is one of them - but I want one anyway, and on some days I actually believe I need one. That is why they are dangerous.

Everybody has fast motorcycles these days. Some people go 150 miles an hour on two-lane blacktop roads, but not often. There are too many oncoming trucks and too many radar cops and too many stupid animals in the way. You have to be a little crazy to ride these super-torque high-speed crotch rockets anywhere except a racetrack - and even there, they will scare the whimpering shit out of you... There is, after all, not a pig's eye worth of difference between going head-on into a Peterbilt or sideways into the bleachers. On some days you get what you want, and on others, you get what you need.

When Cycle World called me to ask if I would road-test the new Harley Road King, I got uppity and said I'd rather have a Ducati superbike. It seemed like a chic decision at the time, and my friends on the superbike circuit got very excited. "Hot damn," they said. "We will take it to the track and blow the bastards away."

"Balls," I said. "Never mind the track. The track is for punks. We are Road People. We are Cafe Racers."

The Cafe Racer is a different breed, and we have our own situations. Pure speed in sixth gear on a 5000-foot straightaway is one thing, but pure speed in third gear on a gravel-strewn downhill ess-turn is quite another.

But we like it. A thoroughbred Cafe Racer will ride all night through a fog storm in freeway traffic to put himself into what somebody told him was the ugliest and tightest decreasing-radius turn since Genghis Khan invented the corkscrew.

Cafe Racing is mainly a matter of taste. It is an atavistic mentality, a peculiar mix of low style, high speed, pure dumbness, and overweening commitment to the Cafe Life and all its dangerous pleasures... I am a Cafe Racer myself, on some days - and it is one of my finest addictions.

I am not without scars on my brain and my body, but I can live with them. I still feel a shudder in my spine every time I see a picture of a Vincent Black Shadow, or when I walk into a public restroom and hear crippled men whispering about the terrifying Kawasaki Triple... I have visions of compound femur-fractures and large black men in white hospital suits holding me down on a gurney while a nurse called "Bess" sews the flaps of my scalp together with a stitching drill.

Ho, ho. Thank God for these flashbacks. The brain is such a wonderful instrument (until God sinks his teeth into it). Some people hear Tiny Tim singing when they go under, and some others hear the song of the Sausage Creature.

When the Ducati turned up in my driveway, nobody knew what to do with it. I was in New York, covering a polo tournament, and people had threatened my life. My lawyer said I should give myself up and enroll in the Federal Witness Protection Program. Other people said it had something to do with the polo crowd.

The motorcycle business was the last straw. It had to be the work of my enemies, or people who wanted to hurt me. It was the vilest kind of bait, and they knew I would go for it.

Of course. You want to cripple the bastard? Send him a 130-mph cafe-racer. And include some license plates, he'll think it's a streetbike. He's queer for anything fast.

Which is true. I have been a connoisseur of fast motorcycles all my life. I bought a brand-new 650 BSA Lightning when it was billed as "the fastest motorcycle ever tested by Hot Rod magazine." I have ridden a 500-pound Vincent through traffic on the Ventura Freeway with burning oil on my legs and run the Kawa 750 Triple through Beverly Hills at night with a head full of acid... I have ridden with Sonny Barger and smoked weed in biker bars with Jack Nicholson, Grace Slick, Ron Zigler and my infamous old friend, Ken Kesey, a legendary Cafe Racer.

Some people will tell you that slow is good - and it may be, on some days - but I am here to tell you that fast is better. I've always believed this, in spite of the trouble it's caused me. Being shot out of a cannon will always be better than being squeezed out of a tube. That is why God made fast motorcycles, Bubba....

So when I got back from New York and found a fiery red rocket-style bike in my garage, I realized I was back in the road-testing business.

The brand-new Ducati 900 Campione del Mundo Desmodue Supersport double-barreled magnum Cafe Racer filled me with feelings of lust every time I looked at it. Others felt the same way. My garage quickly became a magnet for drooling superbike groupies. They quarreled and bitched at each other about who would be the first to help me evaluate my new toy... And I did, of course, need a certain spectrum of opinions, besides my own, to properly judge this motorcycle. The Woody Creek Perverse Environmental Testing Facility is a long way from Daytona or even top-fuel challenge-sprints on the Pacific Coast Highway, where teams of big-bore Kawasakis and Yamahas are said to race head-on against each other in death-defying games of "chicken" at 100 miles an hour....

No. Not everybody who buys a high-dollar torque-brute yearns to go out in a ball of fire on a public street in L.A. Some of us are decent people who want to stay out of the emergency room, but still blast through neo-gridlock traffic in residential districts whenever we feel like it... For that we need Fine Machinery.

Which we had - no doubt about that. The Ducati people in New Jersey had opted, for some reasons of their own, to send me the 900ss-sp for testing - rather than their 916 crazy-fast, state-of-the-art superbike track-racer. It was far too fast, they said - and prohibitively expensive - to farm out for testing to a gang of half-mad Colorado cowboys who think they're world-class Cafe Racers.

The Ducati 900 is a finely engineered machine. My neighbors called it beautiful and admired its racing lines. The nasty little bugger looked like it was going 90 miles an hour when it was standing still in my garage.

Taking it on the road, though, was a genuinely terrifying experience. I had no sense of speed until I was going 90 and coming up fast on a bunch of pickup trucks going into a wet curve along the river. I went for both brakes, but only the front one worked, and I almost went end over end. I was out of control staring at the tailpipe of a U.S. Mail truck, still stabbing frantically at my rear brake pedal, which I just couldn't find... I am too tall for these new-age roadracers; they are not built for any rider taller than five-nine, and the rearset brake pedal was not where I thought it would be. Mid-size Italian pimps who like to race from one cafe to another on the boulevards of Rome in a flat-line prone position might like this, but I do not.

I was hunched over the tank like a person diving into a pool that got emptied yesterday. Whacko! Bashed on the concrete bottom, flesh ripped off, a Sausage Creature with no teeth, fucked-up for the rest of its life.

We all love Torque, and some of us have taken it straight over the high side from time to time - and there is always Pain in that... But there is also Fun, the deadly element, and Fun is what you get when you screw this monster on. BOOM! Instant take-off, no screeching or squawking around like a fool with your teeth clamping down on our tongue and your mind completely empty of everything but fear.

No. This bugger digs right in and shoots you straight down the pipe, for good or ill.

On my first take-off, I hit second gear and went through the speed limit on a two-lane blacktop highway full of ranch traffic. By the time I went up to third, I was going 75 and the tach was barely above 4000 rpm....

And that's when it got its second wind. From 4000 to 6000 in third will take you from 75 mph to 95 in two seconds - and after that, Bubba, you still have fourth, fifth, and sixth. Ho, ho.

I never got to sixth gear, and I didn't get deep into fifth. This is a shameful admission for a full-bore Cafe Racer, but let me tell you something, old sport: This motorcycle is simply too goddamn fast to ride at speed in any kind of normal road traffic unless you're ready to go straight down the centerline with your nuts on fire and a silent scream in your throat.

When aimed in the right direction at high speed, though, it has unnatural capabilities. This I unwittingly discovered as I made my approach to a sharp turn across some railroad tracks, saw that I was going way too fast and that my only chance was to veer right and screw it on totally, in a desperate attempt to leapfrog the curve by going airborne.

It was a bold and reckless move, but it was necessary. And it worked: I felt like Evel Knievel as I soared across the tracks with the rain in my eyes and my jaws clamped together in fear. I tried to spit down on the tracks as I passed them, but my mouth was too dry... I landed hard on the edge of the road and lost my grip for a moment as the Ducati began fishtailing crazily into oncoming traffic. For two or three seconds I came face to face with the Sausage Creature....

But somehow the brute straightened out. I passed a schoolbus on the right and got the bike under control long enough to gear down and pull off into an abandoned gravel driveway where I stopped and turned off the engine. My hands had seized up like claws and the rest of my body was numb. I felt nauseous and I cried for my mama, but nobody heard, then I went into a trance for 30 or 40 seconds until I was finally able to light a cigarette and calm down enough to ride home. I was too hysterical to shift gears, so I went the whole way in first at 40 miles an hour.

Whoops! What am I saying? Tall stories, ho, ho... We are motorcycle people; we walk tall and we laugh at whatever's funny. We shit on the chests of the Weird....

But when we ride very fast motorcycles, we ride with immaculate sanity. We might abuse a substance here and there, but only when it's right. The final measure of any rider's skill is the inverse ratio of his preferred Traveling Speed to the number of bad scars on his body. It is that simple: If you ride fast and crash, you are a bad rider. And if you are a bad rider, you should not ride motorcycles.

The emergence of the superbike has heightened this equation drastically. Motorcycle technology has made such a great leap forward. Take the Ducati. You want optimum cruising speed on this bugger? Try 90mph in fifth at 5500 rpm - and just then, you see a bull moose in the middle of the road. WHACKO. Meet the Sausage Creature.

Or maybe not: The Ducati 900 is so finely engineered and balanced and torqued that you *can* do 90 mph in fifth through a 35-mph zone and get away with it. The bike is not just fast - it is *extremely* quick and responsive, and it *will* do amazing things... It is like riding a Vincent Black Shadow, which would outrun an F-86 jet fighter on the take-off runway, but at the end, the F-86 would go airborne and the Vincent would not, and there was no point in trying to turn it. WHAMO! The Sausage Creature strikes again.

There is a fundamental difference, however, between the old Vincents and the new breed of superbikes. If you rode the Black Shadow at top speed for any length of time, you would almost certainly die. That is why there are not many life members of the Vincent Black Shadow Society. The Vincent was like a bullet that went straight; the Ducati is like the magic bullet in Dallas that went sideways and hit JFK and the Governor of Texas at the same time.

It was impossible. But so was my terrifying sideways leap across the railroad tracks on the 900sp. The bike did it easily with the grace of a fleeing tomcat. The landing was so easy I remember thinking, goddamnit, if I had screwed it on a little more I could have gone a lot farther.

Maybe this is the new Cafe Racer macho. My bike is so much faster than yours that I dare you to ride it, you lame little turd. Do you have the balls to ride this BOTTOMLESS PIT OF TORQUE?

That is the attitude of the new-age superbike freak, and I am one of them. On some days they are about the most fun you can have with your clothes on. The Vincent just killed you a lot faster than a superbike will. A fool couldn't ride the Vincent Black Shadow more than once, but a fool can ride a Ducati 900 many times, and it will always be a bloodcurdling kind of fun. That is the Curse of Speed which has plagued me all my life. I am a slave to it. On my tombstone they will carve, "IT NEVER GOT FAST ENOUGH FOR ME."

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phil-himself

:: 2009 23 June :: 10.32pm

"Maybe this is the new Cafe Racer macho. My bike is so much faster than yours that I dare you to ride it, you lame little turd. Do you have the balls to ride this BOTTOMLESS PIT OF TORQUE? " Hunter S. Thompson

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