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Forty years gone by, and the Easy Drooler is still hittin’ the southern highways and byways.
And though he still wears his hair long and dresses in buckskins — adorned with a peace sign, no less — there have sadly been a few changes. The motocross mini-wheels have been hijacked from a great-nephew’s abandoned plaything. The extreme sissy seat is good for an arthritic back. The squatting kitty air freshener tends to dispel the scent of engine oil. The tailpipes flatulate in whispers. The wimpified hardtail can now manage no more than 22 horsepower (maybe: downhill, with a tailwind).
And that’s not all. Mushrooms and peyote and tabs of acid and reefer and smack and dexies and bourbon and groupies have been replaced by fiber and calcium and light menthols and decaf and diuretics and erectile dysfunction tabs and prunes and wine spritzers and widowed librarians.
(What’s that sound from the bike radio: Perry Pablum’s Polka All-Stars performing Born to Be Wild?)