FLOODS ON THE FREEWAY

Overheard recently, from an old broadcast show: "the gun was in the glove compartment". Which tells you exactly what era we're talking about; from the early forties till the the early seventies, the gun was ALWAYS in the glove compartment. What a charming conceit, naming the stash bin for the Saturday Night Special a "glove compartment".
Never any gloves. Frequently guns.

But a car company cannot call it "the gun compartment". It just doesn't sound right. Driving is supposed to be luxurious, passing time in a nice way or getting somewhere in smooth safe comfort. Not a dash down a dangerous road ending in murder.


I'll have to ask Little White Nipple Dude about all this the next time I see him. I bet in addition to his many other talents (fighter pilot, astronaut in training, nuclear physicist, chaplain in the Marines, AND podiatrist / brain surgeon) he's also a detective and marketing genius. He was in today. For three hours. My life is reasonably complete. And I am a very tolerant man.
Good lord, I'm a friggin' saint.

He smoked two pipefulls in that time. I filled up a sandblasted Charatan Canadian and smoked it while I worked. To calm my nerves, seeing as I was in the presence of awful genius. Which would stagger a normal person, oh my golly yes.

Most of the old senile codswallopers were in at that time too.

Including John who knows everything plus Jesus. At the end of the day I started speaking to him about his narrow urethra, benign prostate enlargement, lazy bladder, and how I should stick a finger up there to check if it's gotten worse unless you go to the loo right now so that we can lock up on time instead of waiting for you to leisurely tinkle for ten minutes precisely when we want to get the hell out of here for crapsakes man go. One of the other gentlemen present uttered the phrase "too much information", whereupon I pointed out that precisely because everybody heard it, none of them would need their fingers, would they?
Don't thank me, I'm a giver. And honestly, I don't give a ratsass.

[John is in the process of being born again. It's probably a breech birth. Quite likely there will be complications. I would call a doctor, just in case. As well as child protective services and an intervention, bloody cultist.]

If y'all leave now you won't be stuck in slow traffic up near Corte Madera where the road dips. I've heard all about that. From many different people. And I've acted suprised and staggered every time some tiresome incontinence pants wetter opened his pie hole.



Anyhow, damned glad to be off work for a few days.
The old bastards will keep till I return.
Or maybe they won't.



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