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Mr. Magoo, The Biker Guru: “Zen and the Art of the Hog Fart”
Gather ’round, you grease-monkey mystics and rubber-burnin’ road warriors. It’s your ol’ pal Mr. Magoo, The Biker Guru, squintin’ through the haze of exhaust and existential dread. Yeah, that’s me—half-blind, full-throttle, and philosophizin’ like a Zen master on a bad acid trip crossed with a three-day bender.
Today’s sermon from the saddle: The Tao of the Hog Fart—How to Let Go and Let Rip. See, life on two wheels ain’t about chasin’ tailpipes or dodgin’ state troopers; it’s about harmony. Balance that kickstand like you’re jugglin’ your ex-wife’s alimony demands and a six-pack of regret. I once rode from Sturgis to Vegas blindfolded—okay, maybe the blindfold was just my beer goggles—but the point is, enlightenment hits harder than a pothole at 90 mph.First rule of biker zen: Embrace the flatulence of fate.
Your hog farts blue smoke? That’s not a breakdown; that’s your spirit animal belchin’ out karma. I told my ol’ lady once, “Babe, if life’s a bitch, ride her raw.” She kicked me in the nuts—turns out, consent’s a real buzzkill in philosophy. But damn if it didn’t teach me: Pain’s just the universe’s way of sayin’, “Tighten your spokes, loosen your load.”
Next time you’re balls-deep in a bar fight or buried under a pile of strippers’ regrets, remember: Every bruise is a badge, every STD a story. (Pro tip: Condoms ain’t cowardice; they’re cosmic insurance against the clap of destiny.)Now, the advanced koan: If a hog falls in the woods and no one’s around to hear the crash, does it still owe you for the paint job?
Answer: Fuck yeah, and that’s why you never trust a sidecar—it’s just dead weight draggin’ your dharma down. Ditch the baggage, brothers. Sell your house, your kids’ college fund, that nagging voice sayin’ “wear a helmet.” Freedom’s the wind in your whiskers, the buzz of a fresh tat, and the sweet release of pissin’ on a cactus at dawn.
But here’s the guru gut-punch: True nirvana? It’s not the ride; it’s the pit stop. Pull over, drop trou, and contemplate your junk in the desert mirror. Is it shriveled like last night’s roadkill dreams? Rev it up! Philosophy ain’t for pussies—it’s for those who know the highway’s a circle jerk, and you’re the lube.
So rev those engines, you magnificent bastards. Life’s too short for speed limits or sensible socks. Ride dirty, love harder, and if the reaper revs up behind ya? Give him the bird and gun it. Peace out—now pass the beans. Vroom-vroom, motherfuggers.
Mr. Magoo, The Biker Guru: “Zen and the Art of the Hog Fart”
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