Did the first "naked bike" save Europe?
They raised me Catholic back there in the Midwestern ’burb, but parochial school was too expensive, so every Saturday morning, it was off to catechism class. While the other kids watched cartoons on all three channels, I learned about the wages of sin and memorized all your popular prayers, motivated by the knowledge that failure would lead to the fiery pit for eternity. Warm would be good, at least. My dad had a preference for American Motors vehicles; the strain of the Ambassador’s starter motor working against those winter mornings only added to the dread as our AMC delivered us from evil through the dirty snow. The school building was as cold as Ann Coulter’s exercise bike, drafty and nobody ever changed the urinal cakes. The girls were maturing faster and seemed even angrier about losing their Saturdays; impending puberty hung in the air and had the nuns on DEFCON 1 constantly, rulers poised. We’re not here to have fun, kids, in this vale of tears. Motorcycles? Those are for people who don’t want to wait in line to greet Satan. Inspired by the church, then later by Bob Dylan, I joined the Army. It wanted to send me to California. How could I argue?
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