When I lived in the hills of New Hampshire, my neighbor would host a party every fall, where we would hoist a foreign built bike into a tree, get drunker than the skunks, and beat the heii out of it, until it fell from the tree. Some were bloodied, many were bruised, and all were sore. In other words, everybody had a great time.
They had better not check the domestic content of a Harley these days.
Then again, I ride rice, which is made in Nebraska