Had a bit too much to drink and left my wallet in the cab at Penn Station (NYC) so I had to call my parents. While waiting for Dad I had bums hitting me up for money so I said "you probably have more than I do" It's 1989 and Dad has his new co T-Bird. I'm feeling sick as we go under the Midtown Tunnel, so I roll down the window and get sick all over the outside of the new car. We got home and Dad told Mom what happened, "YOU WILL CLEAN OFF THE CAR FIRST THING IN THE MORNING." Well, it rained real hard that night and when I woke up, Mother Nature had cleaned the car for me. :TU: ________ Amateur Webcam
I'm driving down the Florida Turnpike in pouring rain. About 60 degrees out. The alternator in my old 68 firebird pukes and the car dies, halfway between yeehaw Junction and Fort Pierce. Twenty miles of nothing in either direction. Thank god they've got call boxes every mile. I'm kinda obsessed with the engine porblem as I coast off the road onto the shoulder. I get out of the car, check under the hood, and head back through the cold, pouring rain to the nearest call box -- roughly a mile. Almost a mile? Gee, guess what -- I get back to the friggin car and what do I see? A call box about 50 feet in front of the car! Doh! -- Steve
Stupid Drinking Stories... OK, as long as we're telling stupid drinking stories... One night a long time ago, My best friend Dave, his brother Dan and I proceeded to hit a bottle of Jim Beam pretty heavy. On the way home, Dave, who was in the back seat of my '72 Dodge Dart Swinger (yeah, baby) announced he had to york. I pulled over, he opened the window and let fly. :gt: While he cleared the interior, it was running down the outside of the car. I told him to get out and use some snow from a snow bank to wipe down the car. He refused and things got ugly real quick. I pulled away and he was talking trash in the back seat about kicking my @ss. So after having enough of this, I pulled into the local High School parking lot and we both got out and slipped around on the ice trying to drunkenly land punches, none of which connected. His brother Dan, who was not part of this, got out, ran up to us, punched Dave in the face, me in the gut, then took off at a run. So, me and my best friend are both laying on the ice now wondering what the hell just happened. We crawled back in the car, no longer mad at each other, and drove the last few miles home. His brother, apparently, ran the whole way home. The next day we decided that we had no idea what started all of it, and particularly, what possessed his brother to punch us BOTH out when he wasn't even involved. ou: We each vowed to each other never to drink Beam again... Please, no drunk driving flames, this was like twenty years ago when I was younger and not very wise.
Ever had green label Jack Daniels? I slammed the whole bottle one night on a float trip... Needless to say I was outside the tent all night....the g/f didn't like that:spank:
Read My Book Dan, Don't feel too bad yet. I'm writing a book titled "Another Sunday in the South" that is a collection of short stories about a Southern family and the various stupid things done by the 2 sons of the parents that subjected the father to severe health risks and the mother to considerable embarrassment. When you read this book, you'll be feeling a whole lot better about things. People who know me and have heard me tell the stories just howl. I'm amazed my father is still alive actually. The funniest story is about the Mad Rooster that performed a stunning rendition of Michael Jackson's moonwalking atop my father's head while he was on a riding lawnmower mowing the grass. We watched that mower run wildly in the yard while he tried to fight off the gloved fowl dancing on his head. Ultimately, the mower careened into the corner post of a small pole barn. The force of the impact broke the pole and the roof then fell on top of the mower.....and dad. The chicken decided that justice had been done and left. Watching from the kitchen window, we saw dad, looking like Samson of biblical fame, push the roof up and carefully work his way out from under the roof and get off the mower. He then proceeded straightaway to the house. When he came in, I noticed that the marks on his head were fairly uniform and looked about like the Michigan Wolverines helmets running from forehead back. A moment later and he reappeared with an old John Williams (Sears Brand) double barreled 3 inch magnum shotgun muttering something about teaching a rooster a lesson. Off he went and the silence of the farm was soon shattered with the SEVERELY loud BOOM of 2 barrells of a shotgun discharging simultaneously. What makes the story so bad is that my mom had been warning him about that rooster attacking people for weeks. She reminded him of this when he came back in the house with a slightly dislocated shoulder (you try firing off 2 rounds of a 3 inch 12 guage magnum simultaneously). His one line response was "Shut up woman", which became his standard response to her on many other occasions. In the end, I guess he "taught that chicken a lesson" as he says. But somehow I think that the chicken was laughing to the death knowing who had really gotten who. Alan
