My Stories and more

[royster]

MY STORIES and more is open to all, of course, but I wanted to place some of my writing here for the amusement of all. I am posting my humorous writing here, but some of my serious fiction is available at Stories To Plant In Your Garden and you're welcome to comment on those here, if you choose.

All writers are welcome. I hope you enjoy. royster

[royster]

GAMBLING ON THE GEEZER STRIP
a true confession by Roy A. Stokes aka "Tom Sawyer"
My trip to Haggerstown, Maryland yesterday was a real breather for my spirit. The drive was a tolerable hour and a half, excluding getting lost, which is always part of serendipity. I went ten miles in the wrong direction down a two-lane road, ashtray fire happily smouldering, "Deep Purple" avowing that NOBODY'S gonna take their car...they need it, and they want it. It apparently has eight cylinders and EVRYTHING. While I felt free and spirited, just a notch below cocky, I am no longer a "Highway Star"; the truckers reminded me of that over the c.b. radio. Did you know c.b. has become some sort of elite club? Who would think fat guys who get no exercize and view the world from greasy platters of country-fried beast would become the messiahs of insight?
It reminds me of learning sign language, which I learned from an old man. When I knew enough to start talking to younger deaf people, they wanted to know what that was...it was old sign language, and although they understood it, half the conversations were to re-educate me on the current sign for a word or expression. And sign language is constantly evolving, so I'll ALWAY be a bottom-feeder.
Same with c.b. radio, now days. They've become real educated at sneering down or ignoring people. And by golly, THEY KNOW. They just won't SHARE what they know.
So I circled Haggerstown through the center about fifteen times in afternoon traffic, with directions I wrote down several years ago with my old mind. I hadn't thought to bring my old mind to translate what "Light...4th light....nthr lt...then left (64) veer up McD's isn't it go more" meant. Finding an actual pay phone in a downtown area...there's a whole twenty paragraphs for the Sufis. And "break channel for local information"...no one keyed up, but the sub-sonic feature on my radio let their snikkering come through the auxilary speaker.
So I found a group of Sufis who were encircled beneith a pay phone, chanting "this number requires coin deposit" and other mystical insights the dime payphones of yesteryear never prepared you for. Sort of like organised religion never prepares us for ascension, and yet it does. So the basic premise is that you should be able to put coins in this slot and dial a number. Even a cell phone's number.
I poured out my trucks' ashtray to dig for the quarters I always throw in there after using them for scratching losing lottery tickets. This presents the question of the ash tray fire I mentioned, which was actually contained in a coffee cup, because I don't use my ashtray for butts. I've always admired people who had ashtrays they never used for ashes, and I wanted to experience this. So when I got the truck, I never used the ashtray for butts. I threw coins in it, and client's keys.
I'm not making any of this up, and I'm not making this up, either; I got ahold of John with the pay phone. Literally, I could have turned around and seen him waving at me. I was two blocks away.
My new mind scratched out old mind's "tco Bl not it, too" and I spent a wonderful afternoon with a friend who I have not set eyes on for ten years. His first comment...I assume it was his way of showing releif...was "you're getting gray, too!" Yes, John; I've past the peeling-paint arch of Mandomness, endured the ritual of denial-bargaining-denial again-refinancing-acceptance, and had the Senior Special at Porky's; country-fried beast and potatoes. With an "e", Dan Quayle. I had the sermon-on-the-frontyard silently foisted upon my aging eyes, as I saw my siblings for the first time in 15 years. If that doesn't force acceptance up your pooter like a cucumber into dime bag, nothing will. Except the photos you just got back, and some strange guy has taken your place. They probably photoshopped that while they had the negetives. The world likes to humiliate me. Bill Wilson says it's good for you. I wouldn't recognise this world without it, anymore. A dime bag...ten dollar's worth of marijuana...wouldn't be necessary in this day and age; that much pot might be one seed, or a lonely stem one inch long.

Huge gusts of spirited wind propelled me out the driveway, a hurricane of highway adventure before me, slowly eroding down to trucker-denial and "you're gray, too!" It put me in my place. Yeah, I'm gray, too. To really rub this in my face, we watched the videos from 1995, when we both had hair you could see on a foggy day. It was the last days of real radio. We did Simpsons impersonations during the commercial breaks. We went into songs with some degree of spirit, insight, knowledge...John is a walking rock-and-roll encyclopedia...and the listeners never suspected Sunshine wagged her tail as she meandered about the station. A few weeks after that video was recorded, blizzards plopped huge amounts of snow along the eastern seaboard. Had John and I had the good fortune of being at the station, we could have commandeered it for three days...redefining F.M. . Instead, Snively ObedientBoy was there,

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and gallantly stayed those three days, working the station by the book. I'm sure he's CEO of ClearChannel, now, because the robotics was perfect. Not one speck of personality.
I always regretted that. Maybe I'll bring that up at my next A.A. meeting, because we're supposed to talk about regrets.
"Hi, my name is Roy, and I'm an alcoholic. I ****ing regret that I missed being at the station during that blizzard. I could have shown them some style. I could have gotten some serious consideration for the demo tape I made for management..."Tom Sawyer, Third Stage". Radio might be alive today, if OH ONLY I had been there. No. I was stuck in a stinky D.C. apartment with a dying friend, shoveling sidewalks for unappreciative people, walking ten blocks to get gin for the alcoholic outpost on 8th street, and listening to a cheap a.m. radio buzz while cockroaches crawled everywhere. I don't have any issues with this, anymore. Just thought I'd suggest a topic. Thank you for letting me speak."
"Thanks for sharing, Roy" they'd say in unison, murmuring to each other "let's keep an eye on him; he's seriously headed for relapse".
Maybe, but I'm pretty happy with my sober life, and I humbly (yet proudly) handed John my newly acquired 18-month sobriety chip. It darn near made him cry. He knew. And he knows.
Old men with gray hair who haven't seen each other for ten years are required by the "Guys Encountering Every Zealous Era Retirement"...or "geezer"...manual to go to the Shrine Of The Slam located off every interstate, particularly since Stucky's can't be found anymore. So we went to Denny's.
John and I caught up with the years, using past telephone conversations as the vines we swing across the Jungle Of Life. It was different this time. We're older, now. John isn't as energetic as he used to be, and I'm not so hung over as I used to be. Many of the people who once seasoned our story have surpassed their freshness date, and God only knows what pantry they're in, now. But I recognised something that is prominent in friends you have forever; it was like we'd never been apart. That wonderful friendship glow is a fire that radiates on its own, all the time...maybe that's the Eternal Flame. Like no time at all has passed, except we're grayer, and ordering food that's easier to chew.
I have the same sensation when I meet where Greg is. It's exactly like it was twenty years ago, after he died. There is nothing to deliniate the passage of time, because time is a successful illusssion. John and i are not good illussionists, or we'd be dying our hair. Then we'd look like old guys with bad hairpieces. But we actually have all our hair, and we thank our fathers for this fact. And maybe we're hiding the fact that we ARE good illussionists; we're imitating old, aging guys, and doing a damn fine job of it, untill we ask for the senior discount...I could save FIFTY CENTS doing that. I'll have to practice more on my geezing. Maybe go to Egypt and meditate at the Geezer Strip. It's a street with gambling casinos and beauty bars, tanning salons and health food stores. Jack LaLaine is the mayor there. He defected from America because he knew a good thing when he saw it, and all the mothers he once coached by television have oxygen masks strapped to their faces. Their walkers have spirited tennis balls attached to the front legs so they don't go too fast. Status among them are the walkers with bicycle hand brakes. Whoa, there, Shirley! That handicap ramp was quite a thrill, eh? John and I gaze at this, knowing full well it's THAT reality tomorrow, for us, or a heart attack served from the senior menu at Porky's. 100 million already saturated. The truckers are hauling supplies even as we're not allowed to speak on their elite two-way radios. Everyone wants to NOT touch earth, somehow. Be it penthouse condos or 18-wheelers, the goal is to distance yourself from humanity, upward. Like the tower of Babbel.
John and I like terra cotta. His third-story balcony reminds us of this; we both hate looking directly down. We're not supposed to be up this far. We'd rather be down there, with the grass. The glow worms. The cat stealthing by but who is addicted to "kittykittykitty" because they know it means a petting. That's the self-same ground where babies learn to walk, kids wobble on bikes, our butts sit on during a fireworks show. No, John and I haven't lost this, and despite all the earthly treasure we respectively have, being on and part OF the earth is one we hold dear.We had a spirited waitress with a great sense of humor. I asked her about encountering some of the antics kids do in restaurants, and she looked at me like EER-EYES-HEADLIGHTS-WHAT-TO-DO: There was a great exchange I can only try to present here. Mine is the first line:

"Can I get.."
"No."

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"How about.."
"No."
"But I.."
"No."

Just that fast, and it has always delighted me when strangers in the public can play so openly. There is OBVIOUSLY no mallice; it's all in fun.

It's interacting with humanity. Unlike the truckers and the Babble-on-ians.

There is a toothpick on the sandwich, you know the kind with frilly colored plastic on one end? It's a little conquering flag the miniture food inspectors put there before the food goes to the table. The waitress was skeptical these toothpicks could become projectiles stealthy enough to stick in the accoustic ceiling tiles. I loaded the toothpick into my straw like a blow dart and a short puff of air sent it right above us. The only thing missing was some "doyng!" sound affect.

Very subtle body languages express volumes, and the way her jaw dropped spoke three paragraphs in the time it took to snap your fingers. I'm sure someone has timed and named this phenomina, but I don't have access to it right now. Probably "Snap x nano-second - quantum?U CAN HAVEM" equalling "In the blink of an eye".
The jaw drop said:
1.) HOW FRIKKEN' COOL!
2.) I can't believe he did that. Let me look again.
3.) Yes! He did that. Let me look again.
4.) (and this one she spoke) How am I going to get that DOWN FROM THERE?

"WATCH!" I cheerfully said.
I stepped up on the booth bench and pulled it out. A kid across the restaurant was vowing to be just like me when he grows up. I don't wish that Fate on anybody.

_

John pulled out his wallet, and for some male-ingrained-conditioning reason I actually thought he was going to pull a condom out. I have no reason to suspect this of John, and he's never done it before. I only carried condoms in my wallet for, like, a month. I guess they work; my hand has never gotten pregnant.

But the laminated yellow paper was immediately familiar to me. I applied for one of those, way back in my W.A.P.P. days. It was an FCC broadcaster's license. John and I are walking museums. Museums that will someday have hand-brakes on our hover-craft walkers. C.b. radio used to require a license. I wonder how many cholesteral haulers could pass the test to get one, these days? In their elite minds, perhaps they think that if they ignore the questions, they'll pass the test. Maybe ridiculing the requirements will evaporate some of the questions. Snobbery has worked for centuries, why not now? Isolate yourself in some fortress, and shoot out from it. Shoot toothpicks at the ceiling tiles of humanity, but snobbery dictates you needn't pull them out. I don't need a test; I know it all already. I was born knowing all, and how dare you even look at me? PUH-TOOOOPH! goes the toothpick, right into the part of your heart where humanity is supposed to own real estate. Snob monopoly bought up all that land, built high-rise ego-fortresses and you gotta have a card to get in. You apply for these cards by not answering any questions, because it's below you to do so.

Many times John and I came close to tears. Partly from the relief that we survived and made it to Geezerdom, but also that which we have cherished, and kept in our hearts. When all the world becomes condescending truckers and inpenetrable elitism, it's difficult to fight for the things you insist on retaining. Chewing with your mouth closed. Opening doors for women. Smiling for a stranger. They can ridicule this behavior, they can even call to ask Dick Cheney if they can water-board it out of us, but it's not going away. Radio didn't have a more dedicated person than John Collins, and you could depend on him...except the blizzard, because an '89 Honda CRX just doesn't like three feet of snow...and know he wou consistantly do the right thing. Apparently, to cut back on station supplies, they used John as the door mat, and John one day admitted he remotely had foot fetishes, but he'd like to choose the feet himself. And true radio walked out the glass doors, into the West Virgina breeze. The dependable CRX faded over the hills toward Maryland, and it never came back. Trucks arrived with new-fangled electronics and they installed them at the old control panel. A touch of a finger did everything. Then, science figured a way to eliminate a human altogether. "Live" d.j. broadcasts were pre-recorded to coordinate with the time they aired, and Snively RoboBoy the II incerted traffic reports. Formats came and went. Mr.Peabody's coal train, in the spirit of J.P.Morgan, hauled Clear Channel broadcasting across the country, and "culture" was homogenised in easily-dispensible junkie-fixes. To quote the Eagles from "Last Resort":

And Jesus people bought 'em.

[royster]

That very same CRX sat dutifully in the parking lot of Denny's while we munched our food, joked with the waitress, and addored a little boy sitting behind us. The clear coat is peeling, but that car is in competition with John in the stick-to-it-ness department. He still d.j.'s at night clubs. He's a member here at Halfway, and the clearcoat is still sticking to his user-name: numberonedj. When you see that name on the "who's on line" panel, you'll know the cyber CRX is parked just below Oceanfalls. And John is here to look through the albums. He knows the labels. He knows what the clear, colored vinyl among us is worth. And besides, his old friend, Roy, is known to haunt here.
His recording studio amazed me, because electronics now-days allows you to have everything you need in the corner of your bedroon. It wouldn't take much for John to broadcast a radio show from there, wearing his pink fuzzy slippers...the big, puffy rabbit slippers, like he wore during his Sunday morning show to the delight of everyone at WKMZ. You have to know John to realise how perfect that was, because there was nothing you could say; any comments only indicted yourself.
And I could tell that my being there helped him in many ways. It prompted him to go through some old files, and I am grateful he's posting some of them here. I hope...I invite you, John...to create a photo essay on the site. A picture is worth a thousand words.
I got home later than expected because there were a couple of traffic snafooz. It was funny; every time I cracked the mike and let south-bounders, 81 know what and where the problems were, the c.b. radio fell silent for a few minutes. It was like they were shocked some guy out there would give information to...to...CITIZENS. AS IF. AS IF this were something called "citizen's band radio" or some rediculous ****. 10-4?
What the HELL is "10-4?"
Must be one of them bottom dwellers.
Show what truck he's in so's I can smack him in the lips.

But it was too late; I had blinked my turn signal three times and was already on the Toms Brook offramp, headed for my cat, my Windows 98 in a Vista world, and came here to Halfway, where geeezers apparently go. .

FIN

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At 4:00 this morning I will climb into my snorting redneck truck and eventually park it at one of the Dulles Airport Long Term Parking lots. Located in Alaska to save space in the D.C. area, these parking lots have several zip codes starting with “1”. I’m going to try and park in Anchorage so I can remember where my truck is parked.

Everything at Dulles runs off of kerosene, including the escalators. It smells like a huge kerosene heater with a bad wick. So I feel right at home with the smells. The baggage carousel is hand-cranked by employees that drink kerosene, so the smell is consistent.

AirTran airways is a bare-bones way to get around, but if you bring your own seat belt and oxygen mask, you can travel for cheap. I learned that if you can cram everything you need into a carry-on bag, you can save the $15 for luggage. The carry-on must go into the overhead compartment, which is why you see so many AirTran flights flying past upside-down; they’re top heavy. But saving you money.

I bought an adequate carry-on bag at the thrift store a few days ago. I cut off the name tag that read “Jimmy Hoffa” and washed the bag. I can get four days of clothes into it, and that’s all I need. Bare-bones travel isn’t for sissies. Which brings me to the “Dora, the Explorer” back-pack I‘ll be carrying.

Before I stuff the carry-on into the overhead compartment, I want to have a smaller bag with my flying accoutrements under my seat. I forgot to get one, and with only a few hours before flight, I had to dash down to the thrift store to get one. The choices were “Barbie” or “Dora, the Explorer”. Since I have issues with “Ken” and his real placement in the doll hierarchy, I chose the pink “Dora” bag. It has a little umbrella you can extend out, but I’m sure the Air Marshalls will frown on that so I won’t use it, unless I order a Mai Tai. That’s not going to happen because I don’t drink. Besides, cocktails in-flight are equivalent to a car payment.

I booked window seats on all four flights, and that is so I can control the window crank when the “no smoking” sign goes off. This way I can spit out the window or stick my head out like a deliriously adventuresome dog. I quit smoking the last time I flew, and I will do it again, this trip. And STAY acquitted. So I assure you I won’t be throwing butts out the window at 30,000 feet. But I will be munching on candy from my pink carry-on-and-down bag.

I chose my seats, but like condominiums, you can’t choose your neighbors. I am hoping that whoever sits next to me is pleasant for the 15 hour flight, but I have visions of a huge Bubba giving me that boarding-now look as he stares down at me there, one hand on the window crank, the other clutching my Dora, the Explorer purse.

He technically should be paying for two seats. Three seats across, one of the center armrests is lodged up his butt crack. He might be enjoying that, I can’t tell by the grunts. All I have been able to tell for sure is that three grunts in a row means “yes” to more pretzels. His “World Wrestling Federation” tatoo on his left bicep is crammed against my nose, pushing my face against the window. His only reading material is “KKK Today”, the anti-gay issue from 1997. I barely have enough room to open my Dora bag and pull out a pink gummy worm. I hope he doesn’t ask for one. Not that I don’t want to share; I just don’t want him to see the rest of the contents in the bag and make unfounded pre-disposed judgements about me. Good thing I didn’t get the “Barbie” bag.

But whatever the case of my flights, it will be good to just get out in the world on my own. I have not done that for countless years. It will be a new adventure for me…smokeless, sober, and bare-bones.

I feel like Dora. The explorer.

FIN

[royster]

FARTZ by Dr. Van DerPoopen, Flatiologist P.U.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh…..Lots of people let farts.
Millions and millions of farts!
From the time that a human life starts;
That person begins letting farts.

You can call it “spontaneous Tushin’”
You can filter a fart through a cushion.
Or whatever it is that you may have
When that volatile gas gets to pushin’.

Some people see farts as a science,
And, using a fart-gauging appliance,
Try to determine if letting loud farts
Is in fact
Just an act
Of defiance.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh…Lots of people let farts!
Millions and millions of farts!
The National Endowment for The Arts
Says gas is where creativity starts.

There are “sneakers” and “squeakers” and “quiets”;
Farts HAVE been known to start riots.
Especially the ones emitted by those
Folks eating high-fiber diets.

Farts often arise to occasions,
And assemble fartistic equations.
The ones which occur from hot peppers, though,
Can frequently cause mild abrasions.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhh…even Carl Sagan let farts!
BILLIONS and BILLIONS of farts!
The Universe was created with gas…
So maybe we were blown out of God’s ass!!!

Statistically, farts happen in each minute;
A fart has only stale air within it.
A YEAR of fart-festing explosions,
Has more force that rain-flood erosions.

It’s been proven; the whole world lets farts.
Millions and ZILLIONS of farts.
They’re often ass-toot and erect;
COULD THEY BE CAUSING THE GREENHOUSE AFFECT!?!

An “air biscuit” roaming adrift…
Whose presence has everyone miffed
Is mystery to all of the folks in the room
Except for the ones who just sniffed.

Soooooooo…DON’T be afraid to let farts.
Quadrillions and Brazillions of farts!
It’s human combustion at worst.
(Besides, if you don’t you might burst).

It was Adam who “cut” the first fart;
And I must say; it gave Eve a start!
It made the Snake leave, and other nice things -
Like causing the Red Sea to part.

And all through the ages were farts;
F. Scott Key blew them Oe’r the ramparts.
From caveman to present, my flatulent friend,
People have sat slightly up to break wind.

The first word heard over the telephone?
Was a fart in F-major, and baritone.
And THEN he said “Watson, I need you!”
Watson yelled, “Good LORD! WHAT’D THEY FEED YOU!?”

And when Caesar set out on his Rein,
It was farting affecting his brain.
(There are flaws in some history parts:
He was warned “Beware the Ides of Farts”).

There was farting aboard the Titanic:
Captain Smith’s was the one that caused panic.
Everyone traveling First Class,
Blew an elegant “boo” out their….

you DO know it sank, don’t you?

There’s farting for NATO alliance,
But businessmen who fart for their clients
Risk losses in profits, in part,
By holding a match to that fart.


There’s farting all over the planet.
A fart cannot speak…….or can it?

(nnnnnnnOOOOOOOOOOoooooo0)

There was even a fart on the moon,
Though trapped in a suit, returned soon.

Concluding this study of how farts behave:

They start in the crib, and they end in the grave.
Though on rare occasions a stiff gives one blast,
And there, my friends, it has farted its last.

Written July 8, 1997 by r. Andrew stokes

[royster]

Soda Pop
by r.andrew stokes

Andrew was not adverse to shaking things up, where ever he went. He would whack a hornet's nest, then stand there, waiting for the angry critters to emerge. He'd point in the direction the culprit went, and after thanking him, the hornets would fly off into the distance for revenge. Andrew would smirk his dimpled smirk, and...to rouse any late sleepers...whack the nest again. Things always seemed to work twice, for him.

Maybe it was that smile that let him get away with it. One time, in sixth grade, he crammed a potato up the exhaust pipe of the principal's Ford Falcon. Biding his time, he made himself available, in close proximity to the parking lot at precisely 3:12 pm, to hear the "RR-RR-RR-POW!" and witness the spewage of starch on the asphalt. But he hit a trifecta, that day; the spud hit the pavement, bounced up...seemingly in slow motion...came down on the janitor lady's Rambler roof, and proceded to land on Tricia Evans' head. In the course of ten seconds, you had the befuddled look on the principal's face, the wonderment of projectile monitoring (evidenced by the head movements in unison) and the defiling of the snobbiest girl in school. Satisfaction is expressed by the yellow canary feathers hanging from the cat's mouth, and Andrew upped the ante with a dimpled smirk. You cannot get fingerprints off a potato that NASA has used as an experiment.

This is not to indicate a life of crime; his practical jokes were statements for the general population. Other than a tuber honoring Tricia Evans and her fine array of emptiness, Andrew had no harm in mind; he just found deep appreciation in shaking up the status quo.

In his senior year of high school, the most daring thing he had done to date was about to be trumped. He had placed the empty box in front of the print shop, with bold letters stating "DO NOT MOVE! REWARD IF FOUND!" The police actually sent a bomb squad out to deal with the matter*. When it became obvious to him that this joke wasn't going to pan out, he walked over and picked up the box, much to the police department's horror. They put his name on record, and the old fart that spotted the package in the first place shook his finger at Andrew. That smirk emerged, and melted that old man like butter on a Delta afternoon in August. What a harmless joke, and how duped you were.

His wedding night was full of stifled snickering, as his wife had gone off to pee. He made himself as small as possible in the wad of blankets she had tossed to the side, and when she got back into bed, he crept his hand up the small of her back, prompting several Hollywood horror flicks in her mind. Oh, how she loved that trickster, and when you are finally on the inside of the joke, what fun.

Andrew had a passion for framing things outside of their natural habitat; this was emphasized the night he snuck into the church Nativity scene, and put a deer salt lick in the plastic Jesus cradle. They never did find the plastic Jesus, but something wonderful happened the next morning, and it put everyone at wit's end.
There were seventeen deer, that Sunday morning, and at first, everyone thought what a great job the church had done at providing animal props. But they weren't props; they were living animals. Twenty hunters, from that church congregation, were forced to deal with the Devil. And with deer. The deer won. Interestingly, the sermon was about "Thou shalt not kill", and at least twenty humans, perched on oak pews, wrestled with their conscience. At ten-thirty, when the doors opened, and people oozed out toward the parking lot, deep dark eyes watched in wonderment; how do they walk on two legs? And people, some for the first time, saw the beauty of these Earth creatures. It was perhaps the finest thing Andrew had ever done for humanity. And he got his laugh.

It was the crop circle incident that blew the meaning out of his sails, and to this day, his wife tries to prompt those dimples, but something deep inside him was carved away forever.

He had mechanically muffled his push mower, and had devised a pattern he was going to mow in the field outside of town. The pattern was Alfred E.Newman, the MAD magazine mascot, altered to imitate George W.Bush. June 11, a full moon that year, arrived, and Andrew woke to the alarm's 3:00 am prompting.

Fueled, quiet, and determined, Andrew carried the mower from the tailgate, down the embankment, into the field. His right hand grasping the pull-rope, the left hand working the throttle, his sight was caught by the local police. That didn't stop what happened next.

A glow came up from the field; it was undescribable. It appeared like some sort of energy was making a laser cryptomessage, and its determined, deliberate procedure dumbfounded the cops, and Andrew. When it was over, mouths finally closed. Andrew's hand was still on the pull-start for the mower. Nothing had come from the sky; it had come from the Earth.
It is the most difficult thing to try to interpret one language to the next, but it is even more difficult to interpret phenomina to those who have not seen it.


Andrew was arrested that night, for merely being there. The soy field made a one-time appearance on the local news, but was quietly brushed aside for more important issues; like, for example, what the First Lady wore during her shopping spree in Paris.

Those who saw the pattern will swear to you that it describes a thought, but no one can bring forth the words to describe it. It is vaguely the impression you first feel when you look into a deer's eyes. You see Eternity, you see the Universe, and immediately you realize how small we are, for this folly. How harmful we are. Andrew couldn't bring himself to play another practical joke, after that.






Except for the can of soda pop he shook up, and placed in your refrigerator.

FIN




*pretty much how it happened.

[royster]

PINTO SQUIRE (to the tune "Hot Rod Lincoln")
r.andrew stokes

My Pappy said "Son,
You're gonna catch on fire
If you don't stop drivin' that Pinto Squire...

Have you heard the story
'bout the real rat race
When Pintos and Vegas were setting the pace?

That story is true; I ain't no liar.
"Cause I was driving that Pinto Squire.

It's got a four-cylinder engine and a rubber timing chain
And they're designed to keep people in the right-hand lane.
With Ford-o-Matic gears you can really get tossed,
After 20,000 miles, you'll be breathing exhaust.

Pulled out of the dealer's late one night
After having my Pinto painted white.
We was trying to drive up Edsel Road
When I knew that rubber timing chain had blowed.

I gotta tell ya, friends, there's nothing worse
Than being in a Pinto
Going 50 in reverse.
My foot was glued to the brake on the floor,
The guy up front jumped out the passenger door.

We went down that hill, almost got done in
Then started to head towards a garbage bin-

'Hit the dumpster doin' 50 and the gas tank burst
'Cause when we hit that dumpster
We was ass-end first.

The Pinto and the dumpster didn't go very far
And it was difficult to tell which was the dumpster or car
It all finally stopped upside a telephone post
And the back-seat guy was burnt like toast.

Well they scraped me up and hauled me away
And they called my Pappy, told him I'm okay
And he said "Son,
You really got me to tremblin'....

I'm goin' out and buy you a Gremlin.

FIN


FROM Wikipedia:
The Ford Pinto was Ford Motor Company's first domestic North American subcompact automobile. Marketed beginning on September 11, 1970, it competed with the AMC Gremlin and Chevrolet Vega, along with imports from makes including Volkswagen, Datsun and Toyota.

[shasah]

Can't read them all now, but I'll be back. Consider this my subscription. And no, I will not forward any money lol.

[royster]

Originally Posted by shasah

Can't read them all now, but I'll be back. Consider this my subscription. And no, I will not forward any money lol.

I take credit.

Note the first post in this thread; you can access my other stories there. I hope you enjoy.

Thanks for showing an interest!