You’ll never believe this. Hell, I don’t know how to explain it. I received a threatening letter the other day. An old friend and long time biker, Bob Bitchin, the publisher of Biker News, Biker, FTW and Tattoo magazine, wanted to see me and Layla on his sailing vessel, The Lost Soul. Unsuspecting buffoons that we are, we packed our duffel bags and went to his ship in King Fish Harbor.
As we boarded, the lines were cast off and the black, 65-foot sail boat pulled out of the harbor. A crew of half-dressed females hoisted the sails.
I’ll cut to the bottom line. There was another strange guest on board, a white man with sunglasses the size of small television screens who was introduced to us as the reigning Emperor of the Cult of the Crows. Shortly after we left the harbor and were too far from shore to swim back, Capt. Bitchin started asking questions about my shapely guest. As the current publisher of the Easyriders of sailing rags, Latitudes and Attitudes, the captain had to know all that was sea worthy, and something about my girl intrigued him.
She had nothing to hide when he asked directly about her father who had worked all aspects of the harbors, including sewing nets, and was the man on the top of the mast for a wooden sailboat race to Hawaii in 1940. He almost froze to death cleaning out the fishing lockers in Alaska in the ’50s. But it was her great-grandfather that he was most curious about, a fishing fleet captain in the Santa Monica Bay. The toothless pipe smoker was married five times, but his last wife was a thin rope of a woman named Olivia.
The captain almost lost it when the truth was revealed that the creator of Popeye fashioned the character after my girl’s great-grandfather and the story was documented in several sea faring publications. You might be surprised to find her on the cover of an upcoming issue of Latts and Atts. Bob and I have been friends for 25 years, but when in a drunken stupor he realized that I was doin’ Popeye’s great-granddaughter, he went ballistic. The 340- pound monster and his hitman, the cult emperor, attempted to rub me out several times over the weekend and whisk the lovely Layla away from me.
I was strong, like a female Kodak bear guarding my cub, until Bob began to negotiate. When he offered two big-titted bi-girls for the spinach eater, I gave in.
And so, that’s the reason for no Sunday Post.
–Bandit
