Writing headlines:

The Hogshead Method

How do you get to the gold?
Write
Write
Write
and then write some more.
 BMW Motorcycles
Big idea:
The ultimate riding machine.
Even atheists kneel on a BMW.
Taunt gravity.
Armchairs cause bedsores on the psyche.
Put as much distance as possible between you and the strip mall.
One of the two times in your life when your spirit will soar.
Buy one before the Church bans such marriages.
If our engineers built spouses, the divorce rate would plummet.
Questions to ponder: Is there a God? Why are we here? Can I take this
curve doing 60?
Bring your girlfriend on a ride, if she’s into menage trois.
The bike is aerodynamic. Any drag would be caused by that stupid grin
you’re wearing.
People take vows of chastity to feel this way.
The police have yet to make a radar gun that can determine how fast your
heart is racing.
You don’t get off a BMW so much as take it off.
Many are the motorcycles that say a lot about you. The rare few say a lot to
you.
Every life has certain peak moments. Here’s a machine capable of
producing them at will.
George Orwell predicted that man and machine would eventually become
one.
Why some men won’t stop and ask directions.
If you feel like something’s missing from your life, here’s the lost-and-
found department.
Bait for catching air.
It wasn’t DNA experts, engineers, or microbiologists who finally created
perfect fusion.
Some bikes are designed to say a lot about you. Find one that speaks to
you.
“Darling, is that... a smudge of motor oil on your collar?”
Cathedrals, mosques, basilicas, Route 67.
The road is calling. Don’t get its message on voicemail.
The only thing at the end of the road is 23 more miles.
Assume your rightful place in the food chain.
Runners get a high from jogging around a track at 8 miles per hour.
Pathetic.
How “joie de vivre” translates into German.
On a good day, it’s even faster than mortality.
Just ahead, Reason is standing in the road with its thumb out. Speed up
before it hitches a ride.
On any other motorcycle, he would’ve sent the package Fed Ex.
Soul searching doesn’t require a compass.
While other animals were blessed with speed, God gaves us brains. And
just look what we went and did with them.
How to keep your life from going by in a blur.
It’s like 4-wheel drive, with two wheels.
Leave it to the Germans to find an autobahn in the middle of nowhere.
Careful. It can smell fear.
What walking on air looks like.
The invitation said to bring your significant other. She thinks it’s her.
The chauffeur of your soul.
His body is waiting in line at the grocery store.
A prosthesis for the soul.
Curse the name of whoever invented the stopsign.
A remote control is a far more dangerous machine.
The feeling is more permanent than any tattoo.
If you’ve ever superglued your finger, you know the feeling.
The road to self enlightenment isn’t paved.
Fits like a glove. A metallic silver, fuel-injected,150-horsepower glove.
“Yippee! I’m off to my root canal!”
Most bikes say a lot about you. A very few can actually speak to you.
Engineers take note: The first successful hybrid of man and machine.
Meandering is for cows.
It speaks to you, and suddenly you’re fluent in German.
Your inner child is fluent in German.
The last day of school, any day of the year.
A carnivore in the food chain of bikes.
There is no known antidote once it gets into your blood.
Just another trip to the corner store to pick up some milk.
His refrigerator is stocked with 93 gallons of milk and he’s on his way to
get another.
Aerodynamically designed to catch air.
There are no words to describe it. Unless “Wooohoo!” counts.
A translation for the German word “Weee!”
Even if you don’t speak German, you should still be able to translate the
picture.
The part of you that cries for adventure is fluent in German.
From the people who brought you unification of an entire country, the same principle on a slightly smaller scale.
No amusement park ride can give this feeling.
While riding it, your wheels won’t touch the ground. And once you get off, neither will your feet.
If he had on a mood ring, it would be bright green right now.
While other bikes brag about their traction, ours is better known for not sticking to the road.
The better traction you have the less you have to stick to the road.
Off, off, off, off-road.
“Look Ma! No hands!”
If it had a rearview mirror, you’d see your troubles in it.
The Church has yet to comment on such a marriage of man and machine.
Lifts your spirits as well as the rest of you.
Somewhere, some small part of you is fluent in German.
Aluminum is more pure than you are.
Horses usually want to turn back towards the barn. 100 horsepower together and it works quite the opposite.
The highway patrol will never know you’re breaking laws of physics.
Occasionally, aerodynamics help you catch air.
There’s something worth racing towards at the end of this road: another 25 miles.
Become one with Nature, thirty miles at a time.
Caution. There’s no known antidote for getting this out of your blood.
The best psychotherapy doesn’t happen while lying on a couch.
This is exactly the sort of intimacy that would frighten Jesse Helms.
It’s as exciting as every other bike. And then you turn it on.
The excuse was to get milk. But the expiration date is long since past.
Never has a raccoon baking in the sun smelled sweeter.
It’s not over til the fat lady sings.
If you’re trying to find yourself, you sure as hell won’t find it on the couch.
If you had eight hours, alone, no radio, imagine what you could think
about.
Giddy. A strange word, especially to German engineers.
A bike more likely titled “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Riding.”
Put as much distance as possible between you and mortality.
Zen masters spend their lives trying to be at one with Nature. You could do
it 30 miles at a time.
Your heart races, your senses tingle. Then you turn it on.
Lots of bikes can make you feel this way while you’re riding. Only one
makes you feel like this long after you’ve gotten off.
And you thought only starfish could grow new body parts.
The seat can comfortably fit two. But like most things this intimate, it’s
best experienced one-on-one.
Yeah, the seat can fit two, though only in foreign films are three-ways
successful.
Where is it written that the love for your motorcycle must be platonic?
Seems preoccupied. Comes home later than usual. Always wanting to get
out of the house.
Men who own a BMW think have something else to think about every 22
seconds.
A giant hearing aid for the call of the road.
People talk about riding alone for hours. Obviously they’ve never owned a
BMW.
The road is calling. Don’t let the answering machine pick up.
If you wanted to drive something fat and lazy, you would’ve gotten a
Ferrari.
Life isn’t a dress rehearsal. Don’t let the prop man give you the wrong
accessories.
Our warranty: 5 years, 50,000 miles or 5 major insights.
Stained glass windows and altars don’t have a monopoly on spirituality.
Let’s see. You’re either riding it, or wishing you were riding it, or thinking
about the last time you rode it. Now, who’s in charge here?
Considering how much you love your bike, shouldn’t it at least treat you
with a little respect?
You can tell where his body leaves off and the machine begins. He can’t.
Keep reminding yourself, it’s just a machine, just a machine.
Not many roadtrips could guarantee that after 75,000 miles together you’ll
be head over heels in love.
Attention physicists: Man and machine have been successfully fused. And
it wasn’t in a laboratory.
You’ve got just one companion on the road. Find one you can get along
with.
Scientists brag about hybrids of mice and rats. We’ve been doing it for
years with bikes and riders.
It would take a bisection to prove exactly where the bike ends and the rider
begins.
Scientists have tried to find the soul. They’re using the wrong equipment.
Not even Chang and Eng were this close.
On a bike where riding is holy, it’s no wonder the riders look like they’re
kneeling.
Start shoe shopping for steel-belted radials.
Please refrain from using the word “machine” in its presence.
Relationships this intimate are illegal in some states.
It goes fast, handles well, and looks good. What more could you ask in a
rider.
You drive a car. You ride a motorcycle. You actually go somewhere in a
BMW.
You possess a motorcycle. You’re possessed by a BMW.
What you’re seeing is his soul. His body’s in a board room in Cincinnati
right now.
If BMW built spouses, the divorce rate would plummet.
Long before the Berlin Wall came down, the Germans perfected
unification.
Usually, this kind of connection requires surgery.
Do you become more machine, or does it become more human?
What sounds to the uninitiated like the roar of an engine is a brilliant
orchestral duet.
Admit it, a little part of you sits in a garage right now.
And then there were two.
DNA researchers brag about creating a hybrid of mice and rats. We did it
long ago with bikes and riders.
The first truly successful genetic hybrid.
You’ll become so much alike, you might start to crave gasoline after a
while.
Spiritually, you don’t need a seatbelt to hold you in.
Unlike many lifelong bonds, no one ever divorced from their BMW.
“Oh look, honey. What a sweet looking couple.”
Stained glass windows and candles do not a marriage make.
After seven years, it’s a common law marriage.
If you ever connect like this with a person, marry them.
We must warn you, relationships this intimate with anyone but a spouse are
frowned on by the Church.
The only thing that comes between them is a nice comfy seat.
It handles well, looks good, and goes fast. But we understand there’s far
more to a rider.
What you’re seeing is his soul. His body is trapped in a conference room
right now.
Board rooms bear an odd resemblance to coffins.
The first few months you just hear the roar of the engine. Then you
understand what it’s saying to you.
Scientists say they don’t know where the soul actually lives. They’re
obviously driving the wrong bikes.
If it looks like he’s kneeling, you’ll understand why it’s so spiritual.
No coincidence that he looks like he’s kneeling.
We’ve successfully joining of man and machine without surgery.
Somebody call Ray Bradbury. We’ve combined man and machine.
The Greeks had the Centaur. Half-man, half-beast.
After a while you might find yourself shoe shopping for steel-belted
radials.
It’s not a bike designed to pick up dates. Though it can comfortably seat
two.
Your bike is your only company on the road. Find one you can get along
with.
Lost-and-Found called. They have what’s been missing in your life.
Bike and rider. Separated only by a nice comfy leather seat.
Attention physicists: Atomic fusion was finally achieved. And it wasn’t in a
laboratory.
We were combining man and machine before Terminator was ever filmed.
If you’ve been soul-searching, perhaps you’re not looking in the right
places.
Put as much distance as possible between you and inertia.
Not every spiritual union comes out of a cathedral.
Not every religeous experience happens in a church.
More Westminster Abbey than Cal Tech.
There are basilicas, cathedrals, mosques. And then, there is Route 67.
You can be reincarnated as a Brahma bull. But if you’re very lucky you’ll
be a BMW rider.
At the top of the motorcycle food chain.
Millions of aluminum cans go to bed at night praying to be recycled into a
BMW bumper.
Aluminum. In some, a soda can. In others, a holy instrument.
About as much fun as your allowed in a religious experience.
Others give vows of chastity to have a religious experience.
We’d be millionaires by now if we could market this connection as glue.
Usually when two people are this happy on the road they have a Just
Married sign.
There’s another reason why some men don’t stop and ask directions.
A prosthesis for your soul.
The whole is greater than sum of your parts.
Cross-pollinate between man and machine.
Merge with traffic. Not every other motorcycle owner.
The bike is fully assembled. And once you buy it, so are you.
Drive off the map.
If you want to find yourself, start by pulling out a map.
Stick playing cards in the spokes of the wheels.
The path to self enlightenment is rarely paved.
Not everyone has a bad picture on their motorcycle driver's license.
Your heart will stop so suddenly, better hope it has antilock brakes.
See the reflection of your soul in the chrome.
Chrome wheels, for reflecting on your past.
Rearview mirrors, for moments of quiet reflection.
Put inertia in the rearview mirror.
Some burn candles when praying. Others, rubber.
The glow of pride never loses its showroom shine.
Find out the turning radius of your problems.
Sitting on the sofa is far more hazardous.
A remote control is a far more dangerous machine.
The bike runs on gasoline. Your adrenaline is self-propelled.
Nowhere is there a BMW with a bumper stickers asking “How’s My
Driving?”
The highway patrol has yet to detect a racing heart.
Nowhere will you find a BMW-driving simulator.
There is no way to be more unlike the experience of riding in a Greyhound
bus.
On some roadtrips, the points of interest aren’t the scenery.
Your estimated time of arrival just got bumped up.
An added safety benefit: you’ll never fall asleep at the wheel.
Where do you drive when you daydream?
If you don't end up with a lust for life, at least you'll have a crush on it.
Every bike ride is a parade of one.
And together they rode off into the sunset.
Fate has chosen your ideal mate. And it might just be metallic silver with
120 horsepower.
What walking on air actually looks like.
One of the two times in your life when your spirit will soar.
Taunt gravity.
The invitation said to bring your significant other. She thinks it’s her.
The chauffeur of your soul. • Remote controls are far more dangerous
machines.
The feeling is more permanent than any tattoo.
The highway patrol can’t detect how fast your heart is racing.
Armchairs cause bedsores on the soul.
Soul searching doesn’t require a compass.
Curse the name of whoever invented the stopsign.
You know when you’re driving a car and you get to your destination
without remembering the drive? He doesn’t.
Responsibility can only ride 50 mph.
Power isn’t about wearing a red tie.
Living too comfortably puts bedsores on the soul.
There are slower vehicles. They’re called hearses.
Yellow is for caution. Don’t a yellow-bellied.
If your life is going in circles, here’s how to break the centifugal force.
For some, it’s more comfortable than an armchair.
There is a messenger waiting to tell you that it’s time to go home. Hurry or
he’ll catch up. Some messages last longer than tatoos.
He was going to get a tatoo. But decided he wanted something more
permanant.
Put as much distance as possible between you and Responsibility.
Lust fueled by gasoline.
For two bodies to be connected so closely usually requires ligaments.
Usually when two people are this happy on the road they have cans trailing
behind them.
The bike is fully assembled. And once you ride it, so are you.
the last time you felt like this there were playing cards stuck in your
wheels.
Put Reason in the rearview mirror.
Find out the turning radius of your problems.
It’s sitting in front of the TV eating potato chips that’s hazardous.
Where do you drive when you daydream?
Please check one: single, married, divorced, BMW owner.
Fits tighter than OJ’s glove.
Each of us has a spiritual twin. Yours might just be metallic silver.
Who’s driving who?
The shuttle to Euphoria, now departing.
Destination: euphoria.
A machine designed to chemically inject your body with endorphines.
How odd. Heaven is what you feel when you’re most alive.
Don’t get bruises from pinching yourself.
Likewise, his spirit is soaring.
Usually you have to die to feel this good.
He died and went to Heaven without the dying part.
It’s no coincidence that angels have wings.
The Germans figured out unification long before the Berlin Wall came
down.
The bike, the girlfriend. Guess which model he’ll trade in first.
The acceleration is felt in places far more intimite than your right foot.
It makes people jealous. Especially spouses.
She wonders why she sometimes feels like a third wheel.
All motorcycles are transporation. The difference is where you can go.
The road is calling. Don’t get the message on voicemail.
It would take a bisection to prove exactly which is the bike and which is
the rider.
Please refrain from using the word “machine” in its presence.
Do you become more machine, or does it become more human?
Chang and Eng weren’t so close.
Let’s see. You’re either riding it, or wishing you were riding it, or thinking
about the last time you rode it. Now, who’s in charge here?
Keep reminding yourself, it’s just a machine, just a machine.
Some burn incense while meditating. Others, rubber.
Scoff at gravity.
No one’s ever been pulled over for being drunk with pleasure.
Your brain doesn’t get out much. It needs a chauffeur.
Doctors who claim they can’t locate the soul aren’t using the right
equipment.
Curse the stopsign.
The rider is the bike is the road is the 17 miles left until the next stopsign.
Plenty of room for luggage. Very little for baggage.
Stained glass and altars do not have a monopoly on spirituality.
The finished product.