The Rustoleum Rocket

My brother used to drive a 1972 Chevelle SS. It was pristine on one side, and every color Rustoleum ever made on the other side. He and my grandfather worked for weeks on end, tuning it to perfection in our dirt driveway. It wasn't exactly professional, but under the hood, that car was a beast of a machine. Naturally, a beast of any sort feels the need to show off now and again, including my brother.

We drove a hundred miles away to a particular drag strip, overheating and sputtering, cursing and sweating, during the hottest part of the day, which also happened to be during rush hour. Finally arriving within an inch of the poor, mistreated car's life, I rush to the top of the stands while my brother waits for his turn at the strip. The top is the best view, since you can see the entire track from a vantage point where you can calculate distance, rather than just seeing the cars get smaller as fast as they can.

Settling myself down comfortably, which isn't easy on a slab of hot metal, a group of five nasty Puerto Ricans jostle each other and laugh their way up to the bench below mine. I'm not making a racial slur here, they were actually being nasty; badmouthing all of the cars that arrived at the starting line, whether they were funny-car freaks out for a good run or professional drag racers making the final day-before-the-race tweaks.

Of course, as much as I wanted to say something, I wasn't about to risk seeing a closer view of the knives a couple of them were absently flicking. As my brother pulled up to the line, the engine sputtered, still somewhat overheated. That encouraged bursts of laughter and new speculations about which junkyard his car came from. When the lights went green, my brother stomped the gas, and the car performed a pretty good takeoff until the intake manifold burned through the positive battery cable.

The group laughed even harder, pointing at the disabled car, "Look at that piece of shit ..."

When the car lurched from the sudden absence of power, the cable disengaged from the manifold. My brother pop-started the car and gunned the engine mercilessly, laying down rubber in a frantic effort to catch up to the car in the other lane.

"... Go?" All of their heads swiveled, following the Rustoleum Rocket on to its miraculous victory. It took less than 14 seconds to complete the quarter-mile race.

Nature Takes Its Course

There are one-time jokes, and then there are jokes that last a lifetime. This is one of the jokes that makes the rounds in our family:

A salesman was driving down the road, and suddenly realized he had to use the bathroom. So, he pulled over at a field and did his business into a patch of buttercups. Mother Nature ran out of the nearby woods, screaming at him, "You nasty boy! Why did you do that on my sweet buttercups! Just for that, you won't have any butter for a year!" The man was very sorry, and apologized profusely. Eventually, she left, and he returned to his car with a sigh of relief, thinking to himself, "Man, I'm glad it wasn't pussywillow."

It's one of those dirty little jokes that's usually safe to say around children, because they have no idea why the joke is funny. When a child is six, however, they tend to repeat everything they hear, when they aren't trying to pretend that they can't hear you. So, one of the children was always trying to repeat this joke, but was never successful. It was fun to listen to the new direction the joke took every time he started it.

One Easter Sunday, when everyone was gathered at the table, the usual range of jokes began. He piped up with this joke, and to our horror, this was the one time he ever had gotten it right. Not only was he successful, it had turned into one of those magical moments when everybody becomes silent, seemingly just for the most embarassing thing to be said very loudly. His parents turned bright red, as everyone looked around, wondering what they were supposed to do, when his uncle burst out laughing. He laughed so hard that tears were streaming down his face.

And dinner resumed as usual.

Wrong Number

It's about three o' clock in the morning, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring ...

BRRRRRING!

Except for a phone. You know, those old-type phones with actual bells in them that could double as a school's bell for changing classes.

He groped around sleepily, until his hand knocked the phone over. "H-Hello?" he whispered hoarsely.

"Yes, Beckham Deli? I need a hundred pounds of thinly sliced corned beef, a hundred pounds of thickly sliced ham, a hun..."

He coughed, interrupting the slick businessman voice on the other end of the line, "I think you've got the wrong number." Having been so rudely woken from sleep, he hung up without waiting for a reply. He settled back into his soft, inviting pillow.

BRRRRRING!

Sighing with a curse under his breath, he picked up the phone again.

"Yes, Beckham Del-"

"NO!" he exclaimed. "You've got the wrong number again! Just what number is it that you're trying to call?"

The slick businessman's voice quavered a little bit, speaking quickly. "Look mister, I'm sorry, I'm just trying to get the Beckham Deli on the phone."

He sighed, rubbing at his temple. Obviously, this guy wasn't the brightest bulb on the tree. "But what is their phone number?"

The businessman explained, less slickly, and it turned out that he was dialing the wrong area code. The deli he was trying to call was in California, and he was waking a guy up in Connecticut! Well, at least both states start with the letter 'C'.

"Alright, sonny, next time you dial the phone number, dial it slower and watch your fingers. Make sure you don't switch those numbers around this time!" He hung the phone up, settling back into his pillow once more.

SNXXXXXGH!

Any man that can sleep though that awful kind of sound coming out of his own head ought to be able to sleep through a somewhat quieter phone ringing. He slept peacefully, if noisily, for another hour.

BRRRRRING!

Eyes popping open, he grumbled to himself as he snatched the handset from its cradle. "Hello?" he demanded.

"Yes, Beckham Deli? I need a hundred pounds of thinly sliced corned beef, a hundred pounds of thickly sliced ham, a hundred boxes of crackers, and fifty gallons of fruit punch."

Affecting an accent, he replied, "A-ight, hunner poun's of thin corn'd beef, hunner poun's of thick ham, hunner boxes of crackers, fidy gall'ns of fruit punch. That all?"

"Yes. Have it delivered to my office by noon."

"Got it."

He smiled, hanging up, having solved the problem once and for all.