Hi, y'all...
FUBAR wiring. That's how to blow a fuse in the house by starting a car. Especially a car that's not been run since it was towed home from Virginia where it decided to throw a rod...I started to capitalize rod, because of Rod, Eric's brother, whom I would rather have had the Firebird try to throw if it just haaad to throw one. (A rod...get it?) Wouldn't cost as much to fix, if it had. Plus, I'd finally get to meet him, probably, because it would be my Firebird trying to throw him...and...uummm. Nevermind.
Like I was saying, Eric had it on the charger, which was plugged into some kind electrical plug that George did out in the carport, near the over head bulb wire. I think it runs off the electricity out there as opposed to being hooked into the house, however....when Eric started the poor (fucked UP) sounding thing, it blew a fuse that I was hooked to, as were parts of the kitchen and George's room.
Onlyest thing I know 'bout 'lectricity is to let it the fuck alone. I do not like being shocked. I feel electric goddamn fences either in my tailbone or elbow (as if Someone is trying to show me the difference between my ass and my elbow over and over) when I touch those evil things and they're bad enough, thanks. I also managed to shock the shit outta myself touching spark plug wires once when my truck was running. Ow, ow, owowow. Man, I threw that fuckin' wrench. I was pissed. I don't even wanna think about what 220 would feel like, so I don't fuck with it.
My Dad, however, used to go into the flooded basement in his house in Mannington Twp, wearing rubber boots, walking in up to about 8 inches of water, over to the electric panel and start hitting circuit breakers if need be.
My Dad is crazy. He also used to go alla way out the driveway of that house, probably a standard length driveway, across the street and would get the mail...in his tighty-whiteys and black, shin high, rounded-toe cowboy boots. Six foot tall, longish blonde hair, thinning on top, beard, moustach and glasses..he bears a remarkable resemblence to Rob Reiner these days...in his underwear and boots getting the mail. Ten to one, had anyone he knew stopped out there, he'd have been standing there half the day talking.
Here we go.... Dad was here (along with my brother) on Tuesday. While he was here, he said that they all want us all (including Eric Jr. IF he decides to show up-which is a whole nother post that I do need to get to before I...do something politically incorrect) to come to their house for Christmas. To the point that Dad'll pick us up if we need him to. I didn't really think about it at first, just figgered we'd go in George's current truck which appears as if it's direct kin to the Clampett's truck. Now, I ain't pickin' on it...much. It used to belong to Wally...(rolls eyes), Lord knows I've driven worse and it's a helluva lot better than having to walk to Redners (the grocery store). But, the only thought I had was that this truck'll put my old Ford pickup with the loud exhaust and the deer antlers wired to the grill right into perspective. I felt weird enough going to Dad's in that truck. This was gonna be a trip. (The neighborhood Dad lives in now, the houses look like those estates used to on Colombo. And, thankfully, his mailbox is right near the house...lol.) But, just a few minutes (hours by now) ago, I happened to realize that there ain't no way four people, or even three, are gonna fit in that truck AND get all the way to my Dad's and back without getting stopped for being so fulla people. Any cop'll know there's no seltbelt usage happening, for starts and let's just end that right there.
I truly don't expect Dad to leave Kim with all kinds shit to do to come get us...especially if the roads are bad. Especially especially when, if he picks us up, he's gonna hafta either bring us all back...or keep us. All of which is just too much. Holidays are a pain enough in the ass as it is without adding this kinda aggravation. Besides, if anything happened to Dad, or whomever came for us, I'd...I'd never get over something like that. I blame myself for shit that's not my fault and that would be.
However...if my stupid, fuse blowin' Firebird was running, we'd be fine. See?
No? Okay...dead Firebird lead to the bad wiring, which lead to my not exactly understanding the electircal setup out there because I hate eletricity, which my Dad doesn't 'cause he's nuts, so nuts in fact he thinks tighty-whiteys and boots is 'dressed' which reminded me that he said he'd come get us for Christmas and that George's truck is not the ideal idea, yet it could also be a huge pain for Dad, which wouldn't have to be happening at all if the Firebird had thrown Rod (Eric's brother) instead of a rod, which is a complete ass ache. And, that, my friends is called segue-ing. To the nth degree, I might add. At approximately 106.5 miles an hour which is what my brain does pretty much 24/7, when it's not considering the delicious destruction of a few specific assnuggets, the loss of which would make the world a much nicer place.
Fun, huh? You betcha. I gotta go string lights now.
While I'm doing that, I'll be singing one of my faaaavorite Christmas carols, the lyrics of which are: "Woof, woof, woof...
Woof, woof, woof,
Woof, woof, BARK, woof, woof..." (Yes, it was a good batch this time...why?)
Comments
I was rolling at the description of dad's trips to the mailbox...
Posted by: pam at December 21, 2003 10:29 AM (VTBBF)
Q: Why can't women drive over 68 miles an hour?
A: 'Cause if they do 69 they blow a rod.
Not sure what reminded me of that...
Posted by: Tuning Spork at December 21, 2003 12:52 PM (7Olmm)
Dogs barking Jingle Bells? I love that one myself.
Bark Bark Bark...never mind. It's in my head right now and playing endlessly...lol. Don't mind.
My son sings the song in the bathtub, the actual words. That's a good thing. I find myself maybe speaking it in Dogspeak if it wasn't for him.
Bark Bark Bark, just doesn't cut it. I like Jingle Bells..repeat the rest until you throw up, hehe...
For the record, I'm getting close.
Posted by: Gina at December 21, 2003 11:59 PM (kJRP1)
And your brain goes like that all the time?
Whoa.
I thought I'd seen you at your best, but that was damned impressive. (and a little scary).
Hope you're havin' fun getting geared up.
TBT
Posted by: Light & Dark at December 22, 2003 10:22 PM (Hrm9v)
which had no windows. (It was her or the elephant, and the neighbors didn't complain about the elephant.)
If she wants to tell stories, we have several
possum ones. I've been working shift work for 42
years now, so I have different sleep patterns than
most folks. Several years ago, I awoke around two in the afternoon, and went into the bathroom
to pee. As I was peeing, I heard hissing noises(?)
I looked under the tank of the toilet and there was a large possum expressing his displeasure that I was violating his space! Hmm, thinks I.
Wonder why there's a possum in my bathroom. I notice that room service seems to have brougt him some carrots and a piece of celery. Aha! This is
Daun's possum! I finished peeing and carefully closed the bathroom door so our new guest wouldn't
wander out and scare the cat. (You may ask why
I wasn't particularlly excited to find a possum in my bathroom. Well, I'm Daun's father, and this
wasn't an unusual occurance.)
Another time I was in the front yard,(clothed,
a seemingly rare experience) and saw Daun riding
her horse toward home, followed by her dog and
goat. (The goat never knew she wasn't a dog, and
went everywhere the gang went.) I noticed Daun
had her right arm held rigidly to the side, but of course thought nothing of it, since I was Daun's father. As she neared the yard I saw that the arm carried a possum with his tail wrapped around her wrist. Hmm. "Watcha doin' with a possum,there?" I said calmly, being rather used to such things. "These guy caught this possum in a leg-hold trap,(I then noticed Herr possum had
part of a front leg missing.) and I made them give it to me because they were going to kill her. Did I say her? Am I such a naturalist I can
determine the sex of a possum from twenty feet?
Nah. The possum had a baby or two clinging to her. They lived in a cage in our house until
the Possum Blue Cross determined they were sufficiently cured go back to nature and earn a decent living. BTW, if any of you ever find yourself being a Possumnurse (the government's
official name for this career), possums love hotdogs more than anything. If anyone from Oscar
Mayer would need a handsome older gentleman to star in a commercial with a (somewhat drugged,
thus lethargic possum,) I am certainly available
for a modest fee. The fee being something somewhat more spendable than free hotdogs...
These are only some possum stories. We have many stories of dogs being rescued by my intrepid
daughter (often within yards of their domicile),
cat stories, wounded bird stories. If we were around several million years old I would be able to relate several wounded dinosaur stories.
She once rescued a dog from the hospital parking lot, carried him home, called the dog
catcher to find the owner from the number on the dog's collar, and found the dog's owner was also the wealthy owner of a local carpet plant in the
county. She returned the dog to his joyful master,
who promised to carpet our floors for free as a reward for finding said pooch. Mr Campbell's house was next door to the hospital, and the dog had been about seventeen feet from his own yard when she shanghied him. (We didn't tell Mr Campbell that, and fortunately the dog didn't squeal.)
There are dozens of similar stories of Daun's
life before she became an accomplished and articulate late-night writer. (Hmm, it's 0400,
and I'm in the lab banging this out. I wonder where she gets this typing at all times habit..?)
Well, I have a few more samples to run, so I'll
stop the Daun stories for now. At least until the
next scantily clad father reference. I have many more stories that she does, although only about
50% of them are relatable to anyone under 35.
Posted by: haveayen at December 23, 2003 04:00 AM (SB0/u)
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