Category Archives: photo paffoonies

December 15, 2015 · 5:07 pm

Playing With Dolls Again

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Yes, having hoarding disorder can be a pain. I channel it into collecting, especially things like 12-inch action figures and Barbie Dolls. But it becomes such a mania that even the rules don’t contain it. These mint-in-box dolls with mutant big heads and bean bodies are part of a wacky collection that has caught hold of me with about the same ferocity as the flu. They are Monster High dolls to go along with the TV cartoons and direct-to-video movies used primarily to sell these ultra-weird toys to little girls. Supposedly each of the girls in the series is the daughter of a movie monster. Operetta above is the daughter of the Phantom of the Opera. Isi Dawndancer claims to be the daughter of a deer-spirit… a Native-American-style monster thingy. I suppose there is a benign rationalization behind these things other than trying to get little girls to identify with and emulate monsters. Believe me, from my years as a teacher, no little girl really needs encouragement to embrace the monster within. And that sort of thing has negative consequences.

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Yes, the picture immediately above is of my Monster High collection as it stood a year ago. I have now added to it. And am admitting as reasonably as I can that it is probably evidence of looming insanity. Let me show you the new acquisitions from the current collecting year;

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Besides Operetta and Isi, I have added the daughter of the Loch Ness Monster, the daughter of the rat king, and, apparently, the daughter of the man-eating plant from the movie Little Shop of Horrors. What is even worse, there are more dolls out there and available to this collection. I have followed the rules and limited my spending, but I wasted birthday and Christmas money from my mother on this stuff… and probably will do so again. I suppose it is because I don’t spend my toy-money on more manly things like guns and political donations to Donald Trump. But I have to satisfy my lurking doubts with the notion that the most impressive collections of things like this in museums are probably put together by fools like me with raging hoarding disorder.

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Filed under action figures, collecting, doll collecting, humor, photo paffoonies, Uncategorized

Tagged as autobiography, doll collecting, goofiness, hoarding disorder, humor, Monster High, weird collections

December 10, 2015 · 5:05 pm

Mickey is Magical

I have decided that since I have a tendency to write science fiction and fantasy, with a special emphasis on the fantasy part, I should actually be able to do magic. It doesn’t take a lot of self-examination to see that it is so.

Teacher Magic

wonderful teaching

As a teacher I know several powerful magic spells. I have the power to put teenagers into a deep and restful sleep. All I have to do is start a lesson focus and heads drop to desks and snore-music fills the part of the room that my blah-blah doesn’t. I also have a powerful ability to make teenagers hate things. All I have to do is testify with my best honest-to-goodness face that something is good for them, and they will thoroughly hate it. Protein at breakfast is good for you? Gotta hate that. Independent reading of books is good for you? I have just made the entire school library radioactive by saying it. Think what good a teacher could do if the principal would only let them say, “Illegal drugs are good for you!” or, “You should join a street gang, it would be good for you!” or even, “Racial prejudice is a good thing for our white society!” (I know I would never actually feel good about saying those things, and I could never make the proper honest-to-goodness face, but that last thing was actually tried by a teacher I once worked with… he said it because he believed it… and even the white kids were instantly up in arms and got that teacher fired. Come to think of it, that was the only lesson he ever taught that I actually approved of.) An even more powerful teacher magic is to forbid things. Anything forbidden by a teacher or a teacher’s rules is the only thing they want to do. I was able to get kids to read more by forbidding them to read library books during lessons. I found it strengthened the urge to occasionally catch them doing it and lecture them about how they will end up unable to flip burgers at McDonald’s because they will let interesting and complicated stuff get in the way of mindlessly doing repetitive tasks.

cudgels car

Traffic Magic

I have an amazing magical power over stoplights. I can unfailingly turn them bright red just by approaching them, no matter what color they were five and a half seconds before. If I am in a hurry, I have the power to make that red light last for more than the three minutes that is supposed to be the maximum for the cycle.

I can also make old people (of course I mean other old people) drive slower in the fast lane by driving behind them. I can make young guys in Bubba trucks zoom in front of me and nearly kill me simply by having a few inches of space between my front bumper and the rear end of the car I’m following. I don’t know how they fit those big old Chevys and Ford Broncos and Dodge Rams in those little spaces which are less than half as long as their vehicles, and do it while using one hand to give me the finger out their window. I suppose they have fold-able bones like a rat so they can squeeze through tight places.

Laughing Magic

20150105_161714 I suppose the magical power I am proudest of is my ability to magically make people laugh at me. (Yes, they always say they are laughing with me, not at me… but we all know how humor really works. We laugh because we are really happy that it didn’t happen to us!) I am able to put on the clown nose and people automatically laugh almost as hard as they laugh at me without the clown nose. I am able to say things in weird words that stimulate your brain to shout silently in your head, “That jest ain’t right!”, and you automatically think, “Funny!” So, with all this magical power, I have concluded… I am a wizard!

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The Current State of My World

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I am busy reinventing myself. There are things that have to get done. I have to raise my finances phoenix-like from the abyss I found myself in three years ago after five hospital trips in five years devastated my bank accounts and credit rating at the same time I was forced to retire from my teaching career by health problems. I went through a debt-reduction program with the advice of a law firm in California that has helped me reconcile 35,000 dollars worth of credit card debt. I am nearing the end of that painful belt-tightening process, which can be likened to putting a pumpkin in a vice and cranking the handle tighter than you ever believed was possible, and I did not pop the pumpkin.

Health matters are better too. I am farther away from doom’s ultimate doorway than I was when I retired. No longer teaching has kept me from getting the four cases of the flu yearly that I had become accustomed to when I was in the germ-filled giant Petri dish commonly known as a public school classroom. Lovely Aetna health insurance people decided they would no longer pay for my maintenance medications for diabetes, depression, blood pressure, and cholesterol, so I was forced to cut down and cut out medications. Ironically, the less I take the meds, the better I feel. Maybe… just maybe… I am not going to drop dead tomorrow.

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I am stuck indoors quite a lot, because COPD and not using an inhaler and sensitivity to every allergen in Texas makes for a less than wonderful outdoor experience. So I have taken to reorganizing my library and various vast collections of junk. I am rereading old and beloved books. I am playing with my toys more than ever. I am winning computer baseball games. I just pitched another perfect game.

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I have been painting the house too, when the weather allows, making the outside of things look a little better too. The football Cardinals have been winning. And the Iowa Hawkeyes were perfect up until the narrow loss to Michigan State. 12-1 is still the best they have ever done.

I have recently been able to shave and look a little less Santa-like, though psoriasis is trying to peel my lower face away again, so I will probably be growing my author’s beard and Gandalf hair back again. And I have completed collections and written up a storm. My work is not yet complete on this Earth, and there needs to be a new Mickey in town to clean up this cowboy-infested heck-hole where I live my life.

I know this has been a rather goopy-goose of a post, but I am feeling good for a change, and it is hard to do humor about everything going too well.

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Tagged as artwork, doll collecting, finance, foolishness, humor, novel writing, paffooney, phoenix, teaching

November 15, 2015 · 3:48 pm

Imaginary Worlds

I generally fall into the science fiction & fantasy category as a writer. I like to connect my stories to the home town I grew up in. It is a place called Rowan, a tiny farm town in North Central Iowa. In my fiction I call it Norwall, an anagram for Rowan with two “L’s” added, one for “Love” and one for “Laughter”. But the stories I tell about the town, or in some way connect to the town, are all about alien invasions, lycanthropy which is the disease that causes werewolves, fairies in the Kingdom of Tellosia which is located in the farms and fields north of town, and Iowegians who were real when I knew them in real life, but have been transformed by my imagination. So, I have to believe that Norwall, like Narnia, Pellucidar, and Middle Earth, is an imaginary world.

Imaginary worlds have a definite and important function. In his new book, The Book of Legendary Lands, Umberto Eco puts forth the theory that imaginary worlds are basically a utopian sort of dream… the perfect place to live out the life you imagine you should be living. (Here is a link.) This rings fundamentally true with me. I spent the Summer of 1976 in Middle Earth, eluding the Nazgul and helping Frodo and Sam sneak the one ring into Mordor. Heroic tales set in an imaginary world help you to transform from the psychotically depressed youth you were with a secret so terrible (being the victim of a childhood sexual assault) that it was destroying you from the inside out, into the selfless and altruistic adult you needed to be to cope with life in a dark and frightful world. We never truly live in the real world around us. We live in the imaginary construct of that world that our mind creates and interprets. I lived in other imaginary lands as well as a youth. I visited other towns like Norwall in Winesburg, Ohio and Green Town, Illinois,

set in Green Town, Illinois

I roamed the stars with Ben Bova, Ursala LeGuin, and Andre Norton. I lived on Mars with Ray Bradbury. I found in those places the golden ideals that would become my treasure trove after a life of vicarious adventuring. It would give my own story-telling the background and the sort of grounding in reality that only excellent examples could provide.

So here, now, is the most important thing I have to say about imaginary worlds; We live in them constantly, and probably could not live without them. I offer this invitation now as this world grows darker two days after the Paris attacks…”Come live in my imaginary world for a time, and open up the gateways to yours so that I may also visit them.”

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comicvine.com

Page-Filler Friday

I have had a monumentally horrible week. And one of the hardest things about it, is that I cannot tell you about most of it and make fun of it for the sake of healing by humor because, after all, real mental health issues are a very private thing. So, I am left with a mish-mash of free-associations and brainstorming to fill up a page with random and unthinkable thoughts. (When I brainstorm, sometimes it is more like a brain-hurricane.)

Under the general heading of; Things a relatively sane older man who is battling hoarding disorder should probably not do is the new collection I started of Sparkling Disney Princesses. As you can see above, I unfortunately acquired some of the more recent Disney Princesses in sparkle form within the rules for collecting (not costing more than $20 and not spending more than $50 in any one month). I even added a rule to slow down the collecting mania. (No buying sparkle princesses of characters I already have in my Disney Princess collection.) Tiana, Merida, and Elsa add up to only $30 over the last three months.

This is actually Cowboy Mickey in the middle of the bedroom he shares with about 500 dolls and action figures, 1000 books, and the fairy in the foreground who is real.

The thing about the relentless doll collecting is more the space it fills than the money it burns. A few years back I completed a five year stint of buying, selling, and trading action figures in which I learned how to make the obsessive-compulsive-disorder part of it turn out to be profitable. I ran a used-toy and collectible E-Bay store that helped me pay for my mental health issue. Of course, I did not get ahead, as all the profits are tied up in the dolls, action figures, and stuffed toys that I have kept. Still, I learned how to do the thing effectively enough to believe I can effectively do that again if I need to, in spite of the fact that E-Bay got wise and raised their fees to make a $5 and $10 business far less profitable.

I should note that I gave up toy-selling on E-Bay after an irate Barbie collector teed off on me in the comments section over a misidentified 80’s Barbie. (Heck, how was I to know that the date on her neck was a copyright date only and not an indicator that she was sold in the 1970’s?) Lady Godiva Barbie on the wingless Pegasus from the Goodwill store is a new project I put on the project table. There is at least a month’s worth of hair-combing necessary and clearly visible in the picture. Mane and tail alone will take weeks.

And I am not yet done with the notion of collecting beautiful sunrises. The recent rains and cloudiness of Texas wild weather have provided some interesting color and variety to the skyline of the park next to our house. It all helps to keep my mind off of troubling issues that developed from dental pain and attendance woes. This has been a very rough week, but the sunrises keep coming, and I look forward to a new day.

So Grumpy

Grumpy (a poem about Grumpy life)

Dang it, you old grumpy man!

You annoy me as only a grumpy man can.

You grouse and growl and sometimes howl,

And pace the house like a cat on the prowl.

You worry me, weary me, and generally nasty be,

And of course you are… yes, you are… naturally me.

So why do you worry me, weary me, moan and make bother,

Now that you’re old, and you sound like your father?

Because you are cranky now, creaky with age,

And know you now, soon, the book’s turning its page.

And, though you complain, you do love your life,

And, loathe you will leave it, and your sweet-smiling wife.

*Footnote* I was in a foul mood when I wrote this poem, but my favorite team, the Cardinals, won a football game with a last second interception by Tony Jefferson in the end zone.

*Double Footnote* Yes, my wife will be smiling when I am gone because I am so GRUMPY!

*Triple Footnote* Yes, I was talking to the mirror in this poem. I took the picture in the mirror and then reversed it on my laptop.

*Fourple Footnote* Yes, I know. Too dang many footnotes. Dang it!!!

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October 15, 2015 · 1:52 pm

Revenge, a Dish Best Served… Well Cooked

You may remember, (if you are goofy enough to actually follow this blog) that Walmart hates my car. So, I figure the time has come to declare war. It will be the great War on Walmart by Mickey. And I am pretty sure they won’t even feel it. You see, I went to their manager with a complaint about them trying to make my car fart itself to death with too much oil after they originally screwed up the oil change. I mean, everything was entirely their fault. They forgot to replace the cap on the engine when they first changed the oil. They also forgot to drain the old oil out completely when they cleaned up their mistake and put in replacement oil (which they did for free and that apparently counts for more than I think it did). They did remember, however, to hold on to the receipt so I would have no proof in court that they had even done this particular oil change. And they were not going to reimburse me for the $140 I spent at the Ford garage to make sure their mistakes had not caused permanent expensive damage to my car. They informed me that on the receipt I had signed my name to the fact that I brought the car in low on oil and that they were not responsible for any damage to my car that may have caused. And besides, I couldn’t prove that they had done any damage to my car because the Ford dealer’s diagnostic results only proved that the car was NOT damaged. So, they basically screwed me out of $140 dollars plus the original $30 for an oil change that had to be completely redone. So, step one, never ever ever… and I mean completely never ever… get any automotive supplies or work done at Walmart ever again… never again!

The hated Walmart on Frankford and Marsh... scene of much Mickey's misery.

The hated Walmart on Frankford and Marsh… scene of much of Mickey’s misery.

Step two, find other ways to deprive Walmart of every Mickey dollar I possibly can of the huge chunk of my salary they soak up every month. It is hard to make the money last as long shopping anywhere else, and Walmart has driven almost all of their competitors out of the area. You can, for the most part, only buy the same things for more money at other area stores. You are stuck shopping at Walmart because for the average American that is all you can afford. But I found a place that actually sells groceries cheaper. I followed all my Hispanic neighbors to Aldi’s. Yes, Aldi’s has taken over for the Kroger’s and the Albertson’s in the hearts and minds of the local people. (Walmart wiped out Kroger’s on Old Denton Avenue, and forced Albertson’s to raise their prices to stay open). Aldi’s, however, saves money in every way imaginable in their little mom-and-pop-type stores.

My grocery cart at Aldi’s.

My cart at Aldi’s in the Paffooney above ended up costing me $41.32. Now, I know for people as dinosaur-ancient as me this is a horrible price to pay for what once cost under $10, but it compares really well with the estimated $65 the same cart-full would’ve costs at the Walton family’s evil everything emporium. And you can’t really see it in this view, but I have a good sized tub of Neopolitan ice cream in here that I bought for less than $4. And there is a 24-bottle raft of drinking water in the cart for only $1.29. (And yes, I also remember when you got water for free and the tap at home didn’t have only hot-and-cold running Texas frog-water in it… with all those delicious fracking fluids added in for flavor, but water now can only be safely had from Nestle bottle trees). So, I can rebel against Walmart by not buying everything from them, and I still get to eat and feed my family. I even save a few dollars. And the best thing is… cookies!

You probably didn’t spot these in my cart, but these are delicious Italian apple-cinnamon cookies for less than $2!!!

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Tagged as buying groceries, evil evil Walmart, hating Walmart, humor, photo Paffooney, saving money, Walmart

October 10, 2015 · 3:16 pm

Band Battles and Ballgames

It was “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” night last night, because the Princess’ middle school band was expected to attend the football game and participate in the Newman Smith Trojans’ halftime show experience. This of course took me away from where my heart was really located, as the St. Louis Cardinals took on the Chicago Cubs in their first ever playoff game. Seriously, the Cubbies have never taken on the Cards in the whole history of baseball playoffs because they are in the same division and the wild card format had never brought them into playoff conflict before now. Okay, before my brain bursts in cardinal red flames, the redbirds won and I only missed a fantastic playoff performance by pitcher John Lackey. The band thing simply had to take precedence.

So, we went to Standridge Stadium to watch the football team from the high school where number one son did his four years. They were doomed from the outset. The one and four Trojans were facing the Woodrow Wilson Wildcats who had reversed the Trojans’ record, winning four and losing only one. The opening drive for a touchdown by the Wildcats let me know immediately that there would be no hope. And then the Trojan kick returner fumbled the kickoff that followed. It was going to be a long night in Trojan town. And yet, it wasn’t. The boys in green were able to intercept a pass and run their way back down the field to tie the game up. It proved that the real way to win the game was for one side to be bright enough to never throw the dang ball. What happened next was a horrible mishmash of long runs and end-arounds punctuated by pass interceptions and penalties. At the half, the Trojans were behind 14 to 7.

That brought us to the real event, the band performing at halftime. Number one son had always adored the band program at Newman Smith. Their marching band was award-winning and top-rated super-spiffy. Dorin, my number one son, worked hard for four years to help them stay a number one rated band while he was in high school. My daughter is seriously considering following in his footsteps. But the band competition between Woodrow and Newman Smith was far more lopsided than the football game. Only in our direction.

You can kinda see in the picture how pitifully small and powerless their band really was. Of course, it didn’t help that they were facing away toward the visitor’s side, only showing us their little band butts during the entirety of their show. And you see how their little red ants on either side of the marching band outnumber them? Those little midget girls (apparently you made the girls’ dance team based on not being over four feet tall in high school) numbered about a hundred. And all they did was turn around in circles and wave little sticks with blue and silver Christmas-tree tinsel on the ends. The band performed their UIL competition routine entitled “Elvis on Mars”, or “Sram no Sivle” as their signs read from our point of view. Their routine even included a boogie dance where the band put their horns and stuff down to wiggle their behinds at us. How is that marching? They weren’t even playing music at that point.

So, we came to the performance of the Mighty Trojan Band, and the performances of “Main Street America” and “Maestro” seemed to be marching band times twelve by comparison. They actually marched in formation and impressed with a loud, bold, and highly musical sound. Their lines were crisp and their corners sharp and my wife and I really appreciated that they haven’t lost their edge even a little bit since Dorin played the mellophone among them.

The marching band performance made the effort and expense worth it for the evening. We thoroughly enjoyed it. And then, like good band parents, we proceeded to go home after halftime. Football game? What about it? That’s not why we went there. Yet, the team had other ideas. They ran the second half kickoff three quarters of the way to the goal line. And they put on an unstoppable running game that took them down into the red zone. And as we were exiting, they scored the tying touchdown.

“Do you want to stay and watch the game?” my wife asked with eyes that told me the answer had to be “no.” And I did not feel particularly well from sitting in the cold wind on metal stadium benches. So I let the aches and pains over-rule the game watching mania that nearly claimed me. We went home. I later learned that the Trojans lost in double overtime. Dang! But we won the battle of the bands hands down.

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Tagged as autobiography, football, humor, marching band, photo Paffooney

September 30, 2015 · 2:34 pm

Why Does Walmart Hate My Car? Episode Two

I wrote a thousand words yesterday about terrible things Walmart did to my car. I intend to follow that up with an even more harrowing tale of Walmart car-maintenance malevolence. They really do seem to be out to destroy my car. This attack was on an innocent little Ford Fiesta that I bought in 2011. Prepare for a journey into the bizarre and horrible world of Walmart oil changes and attempted autocide with malice of forethought.

Episode Two; Murder by Massive Car Farts

Now, I know that there is no posted policy anywhere in the Walmart automotive section where they do oil changes, tire mounting, and random acts of evil, but I really believe they all work under the same directive to stick it to Mickey anytime and every time they can.

I have been cheated by them before. One time I took the car in, waited for two hours, and even though I was watching through the window as they did the oil change, I had no visible evidence that they actually took any old oil out or put any new oil in. When I asked them for the empty oil bottles, they said they pump oil from an overhead reservoir (which I did not see anyone physically do). So, I paid them and went home. But before I made a trip to Iowa, I had the Ford dealer do a more expensive oil change. They said the oil looked okay but it really didn’t look like it was only a week old. So, I’m deducing Sherlockian-style that Walmart charged me twenty dollars just hold my car for two hours and look at the oil.

That brings me to last Wednesday. I knew better. I knew I should take the extra time and pay the extra money to take it to the Ford dealer, but Walmart is temptingly close and convenient. So, I took the thing in. The amount of oil in the engine was a little low, so they did the oil change (I actually saw oil go in this time) and made me sign a waiver that said that Walmart was not responsible for any damage that might’ve been caused by having too little oil in the engine. On Friday, while picking up kids from school, the engine overheated in traffic. While sitting at one foul-tempered stoplight with fifty or sixty… thousand other cars, and running the heater on a ninety degree day to keep my engine from flaming out, the check engine light came on. “Oh, no!” I thought. “Walmart was prescient about damage from too little oil.”

At home I checked the ridiculously hot engine and found the cap from the top of the engine (where a Walmart technician puts in new oil) was missing. So I take it back on Saturday afternoon to show them the problem. “Oh, yes, we’ll clean this mess up and put in new oil for free. Don’t you worry about this.” (He miraculously found the cap in the precise spot by the radiator where he had left it three days before.)

I waited it out, and, sure enough, the engine light was no longer warning of imminent car death. So I failed to notice that he had kept my receipt from the previous visit. We chugged happily out of the Walmart parking lot and down Marsh Lane to a spot where we were closer to home than to Walmart. The car started making choking sounds and blinking multiple warning lights at me. Number two son pointed to smoke coming up from the corners of the hood. And a massive blue-white cloud of car fart exploded out of the tail pipe, obscuring the traffic behind me for miles. My Sherlockian brain immediately deduced that something was wrong. An oil change is NOT supposed to have an effect like that on your car. So we limped the rest of the way home and called Triple A.

Fixing the problem was no bowl of Jello pudding. I called Triple A and they recommended a tow so that no further damage would be done to the engine. The tow truck came and I asked him to take it to 5-Star Ford whom I had previously called and explained my dilemma. This he did. And there are at least three 5-Star Fords in the North Dallas area. He took it to the wrong one. So, I arranged to have them keep my little Ford pony for the rest of the weekend and fix the potentially expensive problem on Monday. I was depressed all weekend. The evil Walmart goblin hordes had apparently destroyed my car. I ate a lot of ice cream… probably more than was good for an aging diabetic.

Finally, the day came when I could find out the bad news and possibly get my car back. I learned Monday that it was not a completely fatal blow. The technician at Walmart had put new oil in without draining out enough of what was in there. So there was far too much oil in the system when I tried to drive it home. Too much oil and too high an oil pressure apparently gives a car massive amounts of intestinal gas. That led to the nearly fatal car fart. I ended up paying six times as much for the corrected oil change as Walmart had initially cheated me out of. At least I didn’t have to sell one of my kids into slavery in order to get the money to fix it. And I learned a valuable lesson from this whole experience. Walmart hates me!

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Tagged as car maintenance, evil car mechanics, humor, photo Paffooney, ranting, Walmart

September 29, 2015 · 2:23 pm

Why Does Walmart Hate My Car?

I have been having a lousy automotive time for the past few days thanks to Walmart. And the kicker is, it is not the first dent in my soul put there by the Walmart corporate boot. They are out to get me. Specifically me. Well, maybe paranoia and depression from chronic illness are not only good friends, but cousins. But it does seem that Walmart is trying to destroy me.

Episode One : Evil Decorative Parking-Lot Rocks

About five years ago I had a run-in with one of the corporation’s most seemingly innocuous assassins, namely a decorative parking-lot rock.

Look carefully at the expression on this rock’s face. Do you see the vicious smirk? No? Then he has you precisely where he wants you.

A more insidious lurking evil I have never encountered. Why is it even there? Does it make the parking lot more beautiful? Does it make you want to buy hand lotion, bananas, and school supplies from Walmart? Does it make you want to buy car tires? It may make you need to buy car tires. But this particular decorative rock nearly destroyed my car. You see, Walmart parking lot drivers are some of the best drivers in Texas. You can tell by the kill stickers on their driver’s doors. The one that was coming for me that late October afternoon was an Ace. I swear, I’m sure I saw a little stick man, a stick woman, three stick kids, and five stick cats on her car. It only takes five kills to officially become an Ace. She even had one of those stickers in her back window of cartoon Calvin peeing on a Ford logo… and my cars are all Fords. I was trying to turn out of the adjacent parking area in front of her. She was at least thirty yards away and going at a snail’s pace when I turned in front of her. Suddenly she floored the thing and was zooming straight for the driver’s door. I swerved up onto the curb to avoid a grinding death of shattered glass and broken metal (or possibly plastic… it is an American car after all). And guess who was waiting for my car at that precise spot. The front passenger-side tire went up over the rock and the car came down hard on top of it, impaling itself, making a huge dent in the floor of the car right underneath number one son’s passenger seat. We were stuck there. The car still ran at that point, but there was no way to get the car off the rock. The Ace driver sped off down Marsh Lane satisfied with the kill.

So I called Triple A to get a tow truck to come and lift the poor impaled car off the rock. The rock would not let go. A passing guy who had been previously t-boned on that corner stopped to help my son and I get the car off the rock. No matter how we all pushed or pulled, forward or reverse, the car was not going anywhere. So I called the tow truck, thinking surely it could lift the car off the rock and I could still drive away from this. But then we were blessed with the help of a family of portly Mexicans (honestly, the license plate on their car was from Mexico, and they spoke only Castillian Spanish from the central part of that country, so I am not being racist here.) The jolly little man told me in Spanish that I could only partly understand that he had tow cables in his car and could pull me off the rock. I tried to tell him in Pidgeon Spanish (yes, my Spanish is apparently for the birds) that, “no, no… I want to wait for the tow truck I called.” Apparently my no, gracias meant something like “yes, please, and make it snappy,” in his version of Spanish. So, the guy who took pity on us because he had also been a victim at that spot, and the happy Mexican guy hooked the back axle of my car up to the back bumper of his little Mexican car and then he had me put the car in reverse and try to drive backwards while he tugged away with his little chugger of a car that contained his plump little wife and three plump and excessively happy little kids. He assured me in Spanish that he would rescue my car. So… we got the car off the rock. But we left a chunk of the oil pan from the bottom of the engine on the tallest of the three knobs on the top of that evil, evil rock. There was a long trail of oozing black car blood on the rock and on the parking lot. I could envision Walmart handing me a bill for cleaning up the mess in their parking lot and on their evil rock.

The happy smile on the face of the Mexican guy disappeared. He quickly retrieved his tow cable and they chugged happlily off down Marsh Lane too. The man who first tried to help us helped us move the now fatally wounded car in neutral over to an unused parking space to wait for the tow truck. Of course, by the time he got there, the garage where I wanted to take the car was closed, so we had to hitch a ride home, and we arranged for the car-corpse to be towed in the morning. The evil decorative rock had won. There was now a gaping hole in my car, and an even bigger hole in my heart. One would think that fate and evil corporations would be satisfied with such an outcome. But no, there is more to come in Episode Two, which I will have to tell you about tomorrow.

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Filed under autobiography, humor, photo paffoonies

Tagged as autobiography, car trouble, evil rocks, humor, photo Paffooney, Walmart

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