A large woman wearing a sleeveless sun dress walked into a bar in Texas. She raised her right arm, revealing a huge hairy armpit as

she pointed to all the people sitting at the bar, and asked, "What man here will buy a lady a drink?"


The bar went silent as the patrons tried to ignore her. But down at the end of the bar, an owly-eyed drunk slammed his hand down on the

counter and bellowed, "Give the ballerina a drink!"

The bartender poured the drink, and the woman chugged it down.She turned to the patrons and again pointed around to all of them, revealing the same hairy armpit, and asked,

"What man here will buy a lady a drink?"

Once again the same little drunk slapped his money down on the bar and said,

"Give the ballerina another drink!"

The bartender approached the little drunk and said, "I say, old chap, it's your business if you want to buy the lady a drink, but

why do you keep calling her 'the ballerina?"

The drunk replied, "Any woman who can lift her leg that high has got to be a ballerina!"

I never dreamed that slowly cruising on my motorcycle through a residential neighborhood could be so incredibly dangerous! Little did I suspect; I was on Buffalo Valley Rd. - a very nice neighborhood with perfect lawns and slow traffic. As I met an oncoming car, a brown furry missile shot out from under it and tumbled to a stop immediately in front of me.

It was a squirrel and must have been trying to run across the road when it encountered the car. I really was not going very fast, but there was no time to brake or avoid it -- it was that close! I hate to run over animals, and I really hate it on a motorcycle; but a squirrel should pose no danger to me.

I barely had time to brace for the impact. Animal lovers never fear. Squirrels, I discovered, can take care of themselves!

Inches before impact, the squirrel flipped to his feet. He was standing on his hind legs and facing my oncoming Harley-Davidson Street Glide with steadfast resolve in his beady little eyes. His mouth opened; and at the last possible second, he screamed and leapt! I am pretty sure the scream was squirrel for, "Bonsai!" or maybe, "Die you gravy-sucking, heathen scum!" The leap was nothing short of spectacular. He shot straight up, flew over my windshield, and impacted me squarely in the chest. Instantly, he set upon me. If I did not know better, I would have sworn he brought 20 of his little buddies along for the attack. Snarling, hissing, and tearing at my clothes, he was a frenzy of activity. As I was dressed only in a light T-shirt, summer riding gloves, and jeans, this was a bit of a cause for concern. This furry little tornado was doing some damage!

Picture a man on a huge pearl white and chrome Harley, dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and leather gloves, puttering at maybe 25 mph down a quiet residential street, and in the fight of his life with a squirrel.

And losing...

I grabbed for him with my left hand. After a few misses, I finally managed to snag his tail. With all my strength, I flung the evil rodent off to the left of the bike, almost running into the right curb as I recoiled from the throw. That should have done it. The matter should have ended right there.

It really should have. The squirrel could have sailed into one of the pristinely kept yards and gone on about his business, and I could have headed home. No one would have been the wiser. But this was no ordinary squirrel. This was not even an ordinary angry squirrel. This was an EVIL MUTANT ATTACK SQUIRREL OF DEATH!

Somehow he caught my gloved finger with one of his little hands; and, with the force of the throw, swung around and with a resounding thump and an amazing impact, he landed squarely on my BACK and resumed his rather antisocial and extremely distracting activities. He also managed to take my left glove with him! The situation was not improved. Not improved at all. His attacks were continuing, and now I could not reach him. I was startled, to say the least. The combination of the force of the throw, only having one hand (the throttle hand) on the handlebars, and my jerking back unfortunately put a healthy twist through my right hand and into the throttle. A healthy twist on the throttle of a Harley can only have one result.

Torque.

This is what a Harley-Davidson is made for; and she is very, very good at it. The engine roared, and the front wheel left the pavement. The squirrel screamed in anger. The Harley screamed in ecstasy. I screamed in - well, I just plain screamed.

Now picture a man on a huge pearl white and chrome Harley, dressed in jeans, a slightly squirrel-torn t-shirt, wearing only one leather glove, and roaring at maybe 50 mph and rapidly accelerating down a quiet residential street on one wheel, with a demonic squirrel of death on his back.

The man and the squirrel are both screaming bloody murder.

With the sudden acceleration, I was forced to put my other hand back on the handlebars and try to get control of the bike.

This was leaving the mutant squirrel to his own devices; but I really did not want to crash into somebody's tree, house, or parked car. Also, I had not yet figured out how to release the throttle. My brain was just simply overloaded. I did manage to mash the back brake, but it had little effect against the massive power of the big Harley engine.

About this time, the squirrel decided that I was not paying sufficient attention to this very serious battle (maybe he was an evil mutant NAZI attack squirrel of death); and he came around my neck and got INSIDE my full-face helmet with me. As the faceplate closed part way, he began hissing in my face. I am quite sure my screaming changed intensity. It had little effect on the squirrel, however. The RPMs on the Harley was maxed out (since I was not bothering with shifting at the moment); so her front end started to drop.

Now, picture a man on a huge pearl white and chrome Harley, dressed in jeans, a very raggedly torn T-shirt, wearing only one leather glove, roaring at probably 80 mph, still on one wheel, with a large puffy squirrel's tail sticking out of the mostly closed full-face helmet. By now, the screams are probably getting a little hoarse.

Finally, I got the upper hand. I managed to grab his tail again, pulled him out of my helmet, and slung him to the left as hard as I could. This time it worked - sort of.

Spectacularly sort of ...so to speak.

Picture a new scene. You are a Putnam County Deputy. You and your reserve officer have pulled off on a quiet residential street and parked with your windows down to do some paperwork. Suddenly, a man on a huge pearl white and chrome Harley, dressed in jeans, a torn T-shirt flapping in the breeze, and wearing only one leather glove, moving at probably 80 mph on one wheel, and screaming bloody murder roars by, and with all his strength throws a live squirrel grenade directly into your patrol car.

I heard screams.

They weren't mine.

I managed to get the big motorcycle under control and dropped the front wheel to the ground. I then used maximum braking and skidded to a stop in a cloud of tire smoke at the stop sign of a busy Highway 56. I would have returned to 'fess up (and to get my glove back). I really would have. Really. Except for two things.

First, the deputies did not seem interested or the slightest bit concerned about me at the moment. When I looked back, the doors on both sides of the patrol car were flung wide open. The reserve deputy from the passenger side was on his back, doing a crab walk into somebody's front yard, quickly moving away from the car. The deputy who had been in the driver's seat was standing in the street, aiming a shotgun at his own patrol car.

So, the deputies were not interested in me. They often insist to "let the professionals handle it" anyway.

That was one thing. The other?

Well, I could clearly see shredded and flying pieces of foam and upholstery from the back seat. But I could also swear I saw the squirrel in the back window, shaking his little fist at me. That is one dangerous squirrel. And now he has a patrol car. A somewhat shredded patrol car, but it was all his.

I took a deep breath, turned on my turn-signal, made a gentle right off of Buffalo Valley Rd., onto Hwy 56 and sedately left the neighborhood. I decided it was best to just buy myself a new pair of gloves. And a whole lot of Band-Aids.