Let it be noted that it is my professional opinion that Harley Davidson should be required by Federal law to administer basic IQ tests to all of their potential customers before they are ever allowed to sell any of their products.  However, I guess they really can’t do that, now can they? If Harley did require its customers to have at least a high school education, then they wouldn’t have the tremendous customer base that they currently enjoy, would they? 

Probably not.  

No other motorcycle manufacturer in the world has as many idiot zealots or lifestyle subscribing retards using their products as Harley Davidson does and I think that says more about the company than any other fact.

Case in point. 

After reading the following email, I had to go and try to wash some of the dumb out of my eyes.

From:                "iron hourseman" ironhourseman@hotmail.com
To:                     BLACKECHO
Cc:                     h-angel-op223@hehq.net
Subject:            Ha, it's over for you punk ass bitch!
Sent:                  Sun, 21 Dec 2003

Your game will soon come to an abrupt end, if ya get our meaning, bitch.

We have info on you as you can see be your attached photo. We have a running
bet that s punk ass chicken fuck like you would not DARE put this post on
your faggot-assed site.

We will be meeting in person reel soon, Sheilds, let me tell you. You and
your small-dick rice burning fag days are numbered let me telll you.
I'm sure you know who we are, and can imagine how badly we want to meet you.
Lets see if your chainsaw on wheels can outrun 20 tons of real steel.

Ha, we have you.

Fear the ironhourseman. Harly is the only real ride.



To which I have replied...

From:                "iron hourseman" ironhourseman@hotmail.com
To:                     BLACKECHO
Cc:                     h-angel-op223@hehq.net
Subject:            Ha, it's over for you punk ass bitch!
Sent:                  Sun, 21 Dec 2003

Your game will soon come to an abrupt end, if ya get our meaning, bitch.


The hardest lesson you will ever learn in life is that Black Echo is nobody’s bitch. You erroneously presume that I would be intimidated by a knee walking, commode tonguing, cock munching, illiterate mental pygmy like you, especially one who doesn’t even know how to spell the word “horseman” correctly.

I find it hilarious that your account name is not “iron horseman” like you suggest it should be, but rather the way you have it spelled is “iron-hour-seman.” Apparently your online name consists of a common type of metal, a standard unit of time measurement, and what laughably sounds like the end product of male ejaculation except that it, too, is comically misspelled.  Your name sounds more like some cheap, generic drug used to treat impotence rather than some die-hard, bad ass Harley rider.

I find great solace in the fact that not only are you dead serious about the email name you chose but also that you probably haven’t the faintest clue that you have it spelled wrong. Oh, I am laughing at you now. Great hearty guffaws roll out of my jaded old soul at your ribald stupidity. If there was ever an abrupt end to anything, it must surely have been your elementary education.

We have info on you as you can see be your attached photo.

The only thing I can see by the attached photo is simply more evidence of your stalwart mental ignorance and that you are irrefutable living proof that partial birth abortions are a very bad thing. However, in order to humor you, let’s take a look at this photo which you have submitted.

Oh for the unnatural and forbidden love between Willie G. and Arlen Ness... 

I expect this kind of slapped together tepid old dog shit disguised as hard work from buzzy skulled numb twats who ride slapped together tepid old dog shit disguised as motorcycles.  That photo is so badly done that it’s almost not worth laughing at.


Now I’m not sure who this poor soul is that you have butchered but it isn’t me; wrong state, wrong uniform, wrong agency and you even misspelled my last name. What you have sent to me is a very, very badly doctored photo of someone else with the eyes and upper face blotted out. While it does look like you tried to merge one of my older photos with the picture, the scale is obviously off proving once again that you and even the simplest of technology are bitter enemies.

What I don’t understand about the picture is why you would blot out the facial details if you really knew who I was and what I looked like.  I'm also curious as to why you would dare me to post the picture that you sent me.  If this really was a picture of me and you were daring me to post a picture of myself on my site, why are you blotting out the details of my face?  I’m sure you didn’t find the picture like that.  Now, what you have done to this picture really doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, now does it? If anyone in this exchange would want to hide the details so that the picture would be unrecognizable, then logically it would be me and not you.

I detest having to deal with rampant amateurs like you.  If you're not wholly predictable, at least you're present in large numbers.

However, I really could not care less if you know what I look like or not.  There are many pictures of my family and I scattered over my various websites and have been for years now.  Since I am a generous old soul, and because I have a far bigger set of balls than you (which are God given, not store bought), I have included a current picture for your benefit. 

Here is my important information, spelled correctly.

As you can see, I really don't care if you know my home address / home phone number or not.  I don't accept collect calls and I don't answer out of area calls or calls that don't show the ID or number calling in my caller ID system.  In other words, I don't have time to pander to the childish antics of the unwashed villagers.  If you aren't going to be man enough to stand up behind what you have to say, then I have no time to waste with you.  All calls can be traced back to their origin with very little effort (it's good to be a police officer).  Other than that, it's your dime, your time.  Do try to make it worth while if you somehow connect to me because I am not very nice to the uneducated Harley zealot or the typical raving fan-boy.  Call any time you want but I use dial up Internet so you may find that I'm hard to get at night.  I also turn the ringer off when I go to bed so you'll just get the answering machine (which is digital and has a convenient delete button that works wonders).  If my people need me after I close my eyes, then that's why I have a pager, two radios, and two cell phones.  Since the only people who call on the house phone are usually those annoying telemarketers, I'm starting to even question why I have a house line at all, other than for the Internet and soon that will be high speed satellite so use it while you can because it may not be around in a few months.   Also, remember, if you leave me anything particularly stupid, I'll just post it here on the site, put your name, address, and home telephone number on it, and we'll all have a good time.  Since a large portion of this site is sustained by your stupidity, I welcome this additional venue for input into my site as well as the ever continuing examination of Harley owners and their inherent ignorance.

In hindsight, I wish I had a dollar, just one lousy, stinking, measly, little dollar, for every email that I have ever received which contained my home address and / or home phone number.  This information was usually included somewhere within a retarded, badly worded, often misspelled warning that so and so wannabe Harley owning pseudo-badass or group of bad-asses now knows where I live so I better get ready because they are coming for me.


Like I have said before, if I don’t live in mortal fear the local thugs and hardened criminals that I deal with daily knowing where my house is and what my home phone number is (it is, after all, listed in the phone book locally), do you really think that some inept mono-brow sporting buffoon with the mental prowess of a well worn, pink urinal cake is going to cause me to become nervous or lose any sleep?


In today’s information based society, finding out where people live or how to contact them is easier than ever and most of the time it’s just a Google or Yahoo click-search away.  Congratulations on discovering such classified, hard to find out information about me; you really had to hack the Gibson on that one.

We have a running bet that s punk ass chicken fuck like you would not DARE put this post on your faggot-assed site.

Well, I’m glad to know that something is running where you are because your bikes probably aren't.
  I'm sorry that you're going to have to lose your bet but since you do own a Harley, "losing" is a feeling and a circumstance that I'm sure you're already more than familiar with as you experience it on such a regular basis.

Since we are on the subject of dares, I have a dare in return, though I doubt you are man or men enough to take it. If you are such big, strong, powerful, real men, riding real American, fire breathing iron horses, then why don’t you send me your home address and information and your phone numbers? I know it will require you to spontaneously evolve a set of minimum circumference gonads and a coaxial spine to go along with them (for balance and support), but perhaps you can do it, if you really try hard enough by jumping up and down in one place and grunting a lot.

Please send me your pictures and I’ll be glad to post all of that information here so that we can see the terrible iron hour seman and the righteous American wrath that rides hard with them. If you are truly bad ass bikers, if you are so tough that I should indeed be scared witless of you, if you are single handedly going to teach me a tough love lesson about what it is like to be a store-bought, lifestyle subscribing, uneducated, flag-slathered, leather clad, sissy-wannabe, then I’m sure that you won’t be afraid to let the world know who you are, where you live and what you look like, or perhaps even for the world to give you a phone call and talk shop from time to time.  After all, you can either post them here now, or people can just download them later from the Mississippi Department of Corrections website after you show up here and start causing trouble, that is, if you show up here at all.


I thought not.

People like you won’t ever give me your home address or your phone numbers because you are afraid to.  Your lives and the motorcycles that you choose to ride are fantasy material; you are all nothing more than posers and fakes who hide behind pitiful facades.  You lead pretend lives, riding pretend motorcycles, hiding behind disposable email accounts and you actually think I'm going to ever take you seriously?

We will be meeting in person reel soon, Sheilds, let me tell you.

The name is “Shields”, not “Sheilds” but then, I guess that little I before E except after C” rule that the rest of us learned way back in the early years of elementary school is still a few years ahead of you.

We'll be meeting reel” soon?  Jesus Chrysler!  If you inbreeds fight half as bad as you spell, I’ll be taking you all on one handed with an old Wiffle™ ball bat and handing out some mortal wounds in the process.  I think it's pretty safe to say that none of you twizzle fucks will have to worry about the risk of brain damage during the resulting melee because you can't hurt what you don't have.

I also think it's pretty safe to say that the only way we'll be meeting is if I'm called out to pull extra security duty at the local Special Olympics.  I'm sure that you guys won't be very hard to spot either as all I'll have to do is look for the same group of retards who are consistently losing all of the events that they enter.

You and your small-dick rice burning fag days are numbered let me telll you.

The only thing you are telling me, Iron Hour Seman is that you either suffer from the advanced stages of brain leprosy or you have watched way too much NASCAR in your lifetime.  It is the same effect in either case, regardless.  Ah, good!
 I see that you have also pulled out the old “I ride a Harley therefore I have a great big penis and you ride an import so you must have a tiny rice penis” cliché card from your officially licensed and endorsed fifty-two card deck of stupidity.

What ever did you poor little geldings do before you actually owned a Harley?

I’m guessing that you either pissed out of a straw or sat like a little girl when you had to go potty. I love how the typical Harley argument revolves around penis size and the logic that anything that you don't agree with is associated with homosexuality. It seems to follow the lines of “I ride a Harley therefore I’m well hung and not gay. Anyone who does not ride a Harley is not well hung and must be gay.

If I am to take the average Harley owner’s farcical penile endowment claims at face value then most of you would qualify as a chopper just by yourself while having severe balance problems when attempting to do anything other than stand in one place.  Now, what you utterly fail to understand in the first place is that if you actually did have a God given dick, then you wouldn’t need a Harley.

Remember: A Harley is just the Lord’s little way of saying He’s sorry He didn’t give you a penis when you were born.

I'm sure you know who we are, and can imagine how badly we want to meet you.

Nope. Sorry. I’ve never heard of Iron Hour Seman before but then I don’t really listen to much rap music. Perhaps if you could hum a few bars and clap your hands to the beat, I might recognize it. Oh, and if I were you, which thank God I'm not, then the only thing I would be wanting to meet badly would be a large bar of extra strength deodorant soap and a basic elementary education.

Lets see if your chainsaw on wheels can outrun 20 tons of real steel.

Given the overall content of your email, I’m more inclined to believe that the “20 tons of real steel” that you are referring to is actually going to be a rather small convoy of about ten short yellow school busses that all have the words “STUPIDVILLE SPECIAL ED PROGRAM” painted on the side.

Be sure to get your parents to sign your permission slips for the field trip otherwise you'll just have to spend the day in the principle's office doing busy work and picking your nose.

Yep.  Saddle up, girls!  There's going to be twenty tons of real mental retardation heading
 my way and if they chop off the mufflers, they can even sound like a real pack of Harleys.

Ha, we have you.

No, Sparky.  What you have is a good case of the extra strength dumb and in your particular situation, I’m afraid that it’s probably malignant.

Fear the ironhourseman. Harly is the only real ride.

Holy Mother of Milton Bradley!

You dullards don’t even know how to spell the name of the motorcycle you claim to ride and yet you think I’m going to be scared of you?  Hell, the only two things that tremble when you morons ride into town are window panes and livestockI truly doubt you are smart enough to read a road map let alone find your way to my house (unless of course Fisher Price has started producing roadmaps for children under three and I was unaware of this fact in which case you may just very well be able to pull this journey off). 

I thank you for the email and the heads up on your imminent plans to visit me. I shall prepare myself forthright to meet the Iron Hour Seman by going to the local Everything’s A Dollar store and stocking up on coloring books, packs of crayons, felt tip markers, and perhaps some yarn, clear tape, safety scissors, and construction paper. I’d buy some sparkly glitter and white paste, but I’d be afraid that you all would just try to eat the paste and either snort the glitter or attempt to glue it to areas of your body that really do not bear thinking about in polite conversation.

In the mean time, I suggest that you go back to elementary school and work on your utter lack of education. Hopefully, in the many years to come, with at least a high school diploma to your name, you may actually become valuable members of our culture instead of just a motley grouping of hairy warts on society’s ass.