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Page 41 of 50
The Trabbant is an extremly small awful little car that suposedly the only good thing about it is the rear window defroster. Which is useful for warming your hands on cold wintor nights when you haveto push the friggin thing after it stalls.
After Germany reunified, Trabant so I am told went out of business. This is partly because the West German Volkswagon was a much better car, plus was cheaper. Also, since the East Germans, formerley starved thin on watery potatoe gruel, were now, by contrast, since reuniffication, enjoying allot of wurst and schnitzel which made their asses too big to no longer fit in the danm Trabant.
I said to him, "Granfather, I just spent the night in jail. You shoud be proud of me!"
"YEH, BUT YOU AIN'T SEEN YOURSEFF ON THE NEWS YET!"
That is true but my thoghts fell to the wayside of my mind when I saw what was in the backseat of the car. Yes, anothor one of Spike's enterprizing hobby diversions.
"So, she starts wailing at me," Spike explained, impersonnating Tilde's trilling voice, "'We have to get poor WaAAAAlter out of jail first! He's more important than a turkey!' ..And so, I said to her, 'Not more than THIS turkey, he ain't'."
"DANM RIGHT," Granfather chimed.
So where the hell do you think the turkey was? LOOSE IN THE TRABBANT. I had to ride with the danm gigantic thing in the backseat with me the whole way home. It flapped and was sqauking the entire time, and pecking at me. It was restrained by seatbelts and bunjee cords but still it got more of me than Cathyann ever did back in the jailcell. Plus it was crapping everywhere. My job on the ride home consisted of negotiating a black plastic tarp all under the abusive thrashing pecking turkey's ass as to prevent it from wreckin the uppoulstry while Spike screammed at me all the way that anything that plopped where it wasnt supposed to I would be personaly licking off with my tounge.
Granfather interuppted his 90-mile tirade of calling me a "pansy" to ask Spike, "DOES THIS BOY EVEN KNOW WHY HIS PAIN IN THE ASS BOSS DONE COME OVER LAST NIGHT IN THE FIRST PLACE?"
Spike said no. Granfather repleid, "GOOD. 'CAUSE IT'S TOO DANG NASTY. AN' I DON'T THINK THE FAINT LITTLE FLOWER CAN TAKE IT."
I felt verry insulted by that, and togethor with the horror of being arested and insulted and generally houmilliated I started crying. I said, "I can TOO take it." I glanced up and thru my tears saw Granfather's piss yellow crocodilian eyes gloworing as he growled in a low tone, "IT WUZ NEAR TOO NASTY FER ME TO TAKE." And just as I began to absorb the magnatude of this, Spike leaned back behind himself to whack me in the head, and even though I saw my brothor's big strong fist coming, I dared not block the blow as both hands struoggoled with black plastic beneath the big bird butt of Bourbon Boy Red.
No one answored.
Spike said, "You'd better be talkin to Walter or the turkey, and not me, old man." (Spike does not like to be called 'boy' or as the old basterd pronnounces it, 'BWAH')
Granfather screammed back, "I IS TALKIN TO YOU, BOY!"
"Call me 'boy' again and I'll table-saw your fiborglassed ass down into a couple of surfboards," Spike snapped back. He is one of very few people on this earth who dosent take no guff from Granfather.
The old basterd said agian, "BOY. WHAR'S THE BUTTON?" and Spike said, "The button? I cant reach it. Let Walter do it!"
I was guided to a bandaid on the back of Granfather's neck, right infront of me, and under the bandaid was a small blue On-Star button. I had seen these before, on TV comercials for fancy new cars. It was a satellite tracking and asistance button.
What the heck is this?" I said. Spike said, "Ah, its just a gimmick stupid old Blankenship thinks is a good idea to blow his Cripto research budget on."
"JUST PEEL OFF THE BANDAID, AND PRESS IT, YOU DUMBASS" said Granfather to me roughley. In a way my feelings were hurt but deep inside I was graiteful that he was not realy dead. The voice of a freindly customer service repressentative crackled over a small set of tiny holes, like you see on the earpeice of a telephone, that Id just noticed were neatly drilled into the fiberglass covoring on the back of the old basterd's head.
"May I help you?" said the voice."
"YEAH," said Granfather, "I'M ON STATE HIGHWAY NUMBER..."
The voice politely interupted, "We alredy know where you are sir, thanks to our GPS system..." but before he coud finish Granfather snapped back, "WAAL, I GOTTA USE THE TOILET SO FIND ME ONE, YOU FUTURISTIC DUMBASS PAIN IN THE ASS."
Spike got frantic and began to scream at Granfather. "Dont do it in this car! This car is sold alredy!" It turned out that Spike had just sold the car in an online auto market, aftor advertising it as being in "flawless" condittion and that meant no stains. Trabants have become rare and colectible, especialy among nostalgic expatriate East Germans.
Anyway, Spike cut a deal with these guys. It seemed that these angry humorless Germans, owed a whole lot of money to some other Germans -- who hapenned to be very stern fearful guys who made these original fellows look like a coupel of rosy-cheeked Hummel Figurines of smiley little girls weaving daisy chains.
I dont know that particulors of the deal. But I did know that Spike had smoothed ovor all the disagreements by providing a vintage "flawless" Trabant to the second, and more sour pair of Germans.
Spike hollored, "Granfather, this car is gettin shipped overseas tomorrow!"
Granfather screammed back, "WAAL, IF ON-STAR FINDS ME A JOHN IN THE NEXT THIRTY SECONDS, YOU WON'T HAFTA WORRY!"
"It has to ship or I'll get 'Negative Feedback' on the vintege car website!" Spike screamed.
"HERE'S SOME NEGATIVE FEEDBACK!," Granfather creid as a mammoth booming fart ripped out of him, the power of its thundoring sound separrating the thin ceiling fabric of the inside roof. The buttons that held the fabric in place whistoled and rickoshayed around like bullets, tossing whirl-devils of turkey feathers spinning all about, while the roof fabric itself wafted down to covor Granps like captive netting tossed on a wild stinking beast.
"GENTLEMEN, THUS CONCLUDES THE AIR WAR. PREPARE FOR THE GROUND WAR," he growled in truimph.
"On-Star, where ARE you!?" Spike despratly shoutad.
The On-Star rep's voice quikley sputtered from the speaker that there is a Service Area on the right exit, two tenths of a mile up, complete with handycap toilet facilities. He also appollogized for a breif, shorted fuse in their satellite, which, by coincidence, hapened to be orbiting the earth 200 miles exactley above us here in Texas, and which also, had just at that precise minute suffored, for some unexplained reason, from a mometary, bursting, intergallactic carbonic sulfer burn on its underside which had mysteriously shot up from below like a plume on its way to the friggin Van Allen Belt.
As the On-Star rep also added undor his breath his hopes that this new pilot program of providding Emmergency Facilities to large roadbound unexplianed pseudo-mammallian placental reptile beasts will soon be discontineud, my brother in the meantime swirved off the exit on two wheels in what must of been a land speed record for a Trabant.
Also it is a (overdue I supose) mark of maturity in my life that I do not go into allot of descritptive detail to describe exactley what hapenned to the uppoulstrey when Granfather (on purpose is my guess) let loose on it just as both me and Spike tried to pull his grinning, smug, and Clinton-on-the-covor-of-The December 2000 Esquire Magazine-posed laquered carcass out of the car. Lets just say that even the turkey was suprized.
And hell, even seemed offended.