Was coming back from a week in Nova Scotia, crossing back into the states at Calais, Maine. The US Customs agent was a drop dead gorgeous blonde, tall, slim, bright blue eyes and oh-so sexy in her olive drab jumpsuit with paratrooper boots.
She was absolutely stone-faced. Not one shred of any emotion aside from a bit of annoyance at finding me in front of her. "Take off those sunglasses!" she barked, and I was embarrassed that I'd forgotten to do that. "Where are you from? Where did you go? What are you bringing back with you?"
Rapid fire questions, and I had difficulty hearing her because of the straight-piped Harley blipping his throttle impatiently fifty feet behind me. She pointed to the Harley rider. "Is he with you?"
I looked in my mirror at the other rider. He was in full pirate regalia: leather vest with patches, earrings, chaps, full beard, Yoko Ono sunglasses. He was also perhaps the most filthy human being I'd ever seen. "No, ma'am," I responded. "I ride a Beemer and he's on a Harley."
She looked puzzled and asked, "Aren't all you biker types brothers?"
"Yes, ma'am. But some of us bathe!"
For just a micro-second a delighted smile flitted across her face. Then the stone returned and she waved me on.