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Friday, August 5, 2011

133 Matilda 3

Have you ever killed a car? Matilda was my first bitch, and I killed her. She would not be the last car I killed. Young, ten feet tall, invincible and cock-sure. That attitude will fuck you up every time.

The stars beyond the windshield looked close enough to touch. I was in the off-skirts of Fuckno, even beyond Clovis which shined heavenward off behind on the right.

Then Matilda coughed and began to sputter. She slowed herself right down as I pressed harder on the accelerator. Now we were going about forty, and headlights behind me grew larger quite quickly.

Stacy appeared on my left, with her fancy powered passenger side window all the way down. She slowed down to my speed and yelled, “You letting me win? Such a gentleman!”

Then she took off again and way up ahead she signaled for the next exit. I followed her.

Matilda kept chugging along at 40 MPH, but she wouldn’t go any faster. I could feel her heartbeat through the accelerator. It was like she was hiccupping.

Stacy paused at each intersection to wait for me to catch up, and then she pulled into a driveway that rose up above a hump. Her home sat on a bit of a bluff, and the sky behind it shined a billion galaxies.

She hopped out of her ride and came skipping over to me. Yup, she was barefoot. A barefooted country chick, can ya hand me some hot apple pie and freshly squirted cow juice, ma’am?

Her eyes went big and she stopped mid-skip when she saw the steam coming out from underneath Matilda’s hood. “Pop it open!”

I did and she pushed it up and put the bar in place. “I think you blew the head gasket!”

“Oh? I thought she threw a rod?” I jumped out and went to see. Off course, there was nothing to see. “I’ll get a flashlight.” I grabbed it out of my glove box. You know, they should be called “Flashlight/ Car reg-insurance wallet/ CDs/ condoms/ tire gauge/ gun/ paraphernalia boxes.

Stacy said, “If she had thrown a rod, you would haven’t gotten very far. She’d be mangled, on the inside. Let’s check your dipstick.”

Normally, when someone says this to you, either they are about to hold your balls in their hand and tell you to turn your head and cough, or else, they are going to have some fun with you. Either way, it’ll cost you some hard earned cash money.

Stacy pulled my dipstick out of its sheath and I shined the light on it. There was a yellow cream covering it.

I shrugged. “Should I see a doctor about this?”

She frowned. “The water from your coolant system has gotten into your oil pan and the crankshaft done whipped the water and oil into butter. You need to let her cool down. I’ll go get some hot water to put in the radiator. Don’t want to crack her block. And no, don’t try to taste it. It’s not real butter.”

I laughed at that, but inside, it felt like I had been sucker punched in the gut. Shit.

My flashlight followed the Latina country girl’s bumped-out rear as she went off towards her house, and she giggled and waved her hands away at me when she saw what I was doing.

All that work… gone. I sat against the open grill and shined the flashlight up into the stars. No one up there responded in kind.

I could forget about flying off back to my Rez now. That plan was pushed away into the future by, what, weeks? Months? Needed to replace her head gasket. Prolly have to get her towed back into town, and that would not be cheap.

What the fuck had I done? What the fuck was I about to do? Well, the answer to both is that I was in the process of fucking myself over. The night would go first into ecstasy, and then, abruptly, into quaking fear.

Stacy came back out with a large milking container she carried with both hands, and I saw a rack of brewskies dangling from her left hand.

She was a strong girl.

She set everything down and offered me a beer. “Here’s to your little car, Matilda?”

“Yeah, Matilda. Thanks Stacy.” We drank. Stacy finished hers first, burped loudly, punched me in the gut and shot-gunned the rest to her own head.

Yeah, right.

Instead, she wrapped her arms around me and pressed her big boobies against my chest. Then she tilted her head, slightly parted her lips, and closed her eyes as she came in. It was refreshing. She smelled quite good, and her mouth tasted like nectar. By which I mean ice cold beer.

She smiled as she pulled away and said, “You have some work to do.” Her eyes glanced down at the only member of my club, who was straining his neck up to get a look-see.

Stacy motioned to the large milk jug, but I had my eyes on some other ones.

“You should fill her up to the top.”

She had no idea how inviting that sounded right then and there.

I used a rag to slowly open the radiator cap. Steam hissed out at the first stop, so I let go until it sputtered and wafted away into silence. Then I pushed down and turned it the rest of the way and removed it. It smelled a bit like bread that had been baked in an auto shop.

The first bit of hot water that I poured down Matilda’s smoky throat caused a couple of gurgling steam clouds to come busting out, but then she took it all in. The water ran down all over the radiator and I set the jug down and put the cap back in place.

“You should fill the reservoir up too. I’ll get some plastic jugs for you if you think you want to try to drive her back home…”

“I can do that?”

“If you’re careful. You’ll have to drive in the break-down lane, go no faster than 20 or 25 tops, and keep your eyes on her temp gauge. Each time she gets too hot, pull over and let her cool down. When she’s cooled down, put more water to her. You’ll be fine.”

If only that were true.

“Well, Stacy, thank you. I guess I---“

“Oh, you can’t leave just yet. She’s still quite hot.”

I smiled.


We made out in the back seat of my little rocket ship, and she began to undo my pants. I felt those wonderful blessings of hers, and yes, they were real, and they were magnificent. Stacy was very hot as she rode high, and her breath became husky, as we eased into things, and then began to rock back and forth. She was taching high RPMs when the head lamp appeared in the rear window.

I looked up at her face, which was now lit up like it was on stage, big eyes and open mouth.

The headlight came slowly along the right side and went up to the front of Matilda. Someone had come up over the hill on a motorcycle.

“Oh no. I lost track of the time.”

“Is it your dad?”

“No, it’s my boyfriend.”

Oh, come on man.




Well now, how does this fare for those of us who write books? Evidently, the rioters in London left bookstores untouched. Yay. I mean, wait, ...what? Ain’t my writin’s good enough to steal? ...Prolly not… Wankers...

Antidote: Cure for cancer? Looks like it.

Speaking of Cancer, U.S. Debt explained here, short, compact, and in a cartoon. Really? Yes. Really.

Be aware of injury to yourself. Here are some pic guides to help out.

In order to help with cancer and other forms of injury that may leaving you facing the future with a blank stare from your Botox injections, here is how to harvest a face, for plastic surgery. With gross and nasty pics. ---willies style.

Antidote: Excellent multimedia work by Hae-Joon Lee. Claymation/ video/ paper sketch… well just look. The song is by The National: “Exile, Vilify.” Wonder if any of you know the reference to a certain video game?

Science news. Gluten free will be up held, for those of you who have become celiac. This is a growing concern, no pun intended.

Non-Science news. Meet Rick Perry. Entropy_Happens ribbed DROFSNEDT in our forums about him, concerning his “wife” Katy Perry. Food for thought? LOLZ

Well, just beware of your lady. She might be a spy, ya know.

Thanks for coming by all this week. Richie will be back soon. Safe travels to you and your little family, young man.

God Help You.

God Help Us All.

---willies out.

OK, One More For Ya.

By now, you know that I quite enjoy genius, and as well, talent. So here is a duo that holds both: Trent Reznor on keyboards, and Karen O with her amazing vocal capabilities. Then, Trent fucks with your ears as this song ends.

It's Immigrant Song, by Led Zeppelin, redux. Amen.


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