Ponch

by Dave McAwesome

This is Ponch. I shouldn't even have to tell you that. It's Ponch. Estrada at his zenith. Zenith-Estrada, I call him.

Look how at ease he is with himself. CHiPs shirt flapping open just so: a remiss button or two for the ladies. A black plastic watch wrapped around a muscular--yet tender--left forearm. "It's always Zenith-Estrada time, baby!" Ah, if only that were true. And those dark aviator sunglasses. I say, those dark McAwesome sunglasses. Ahem, well, there USED to be sunglasses. But the bike! Ah, the bike. Feet resting lazily on 250ccs of cop-fueled cool. Ponch does not care for your sarcasm. Ponch need not mind your taunting or your raspberry-making or even your raspberry-flavored, taunted covered marshmellows. Ponch cares nothing of this. For this, my friends, this is Ponch.

Footnote: So that you may come to understand the manner of my wit, please note that a 'raspberry,' in addition to being a delicious fruit of the genus awesome, is "a sound of derision or contempt made by blowing through closed lips with the tongue between," according to the Oxford English Dictionary, c.f. Archie Bunker.

Want more Ponch? Of course you do, and I am happy to oblige.

Just for kicks, here's some more sweet, sweet Ponch action.

Look at Ponch.
See how carefree he is.
Not a worry in the world.
And why not?
His hair is perfect,
he's got a kickin ride
and he's packing a .38 Special.
Does life get any better?
I propose that it does not.