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ULTIMATE FRISBEE, WITH WHEELS
It’s kind of related to air travel, and also involves car crushing, so here’s hoping this appeals to the Guardian‘s George Monbiot:
Afterburner, the Air Force-sponsored monster truck, thrilled 50,000 Monster Jam fans with car-crushing, high-jumping, raw engine power Jan. 13 at San Antonio’s Alamodome.
2007 marks the second season the Air Force sponsors Afterburner, a high-powered 2006 monster truck equipped with a 1,465 HP, 540 Merlin motor and 66-inch tires designed to take on the U.S. Hot Rod Association Monster Jam racing circuit.
You know, someone in the monster truck caper should name his vehicle “Monbiot” (or maybe “Carbon Credits”). Guaranteed free publicity from outraged George.
Oh good lord. My voice mail is filling up already with RWDB’s placing orders.
They’re not road vehicles people! They’re crash ‘em smash ‘em trucks. Get a ute.
Posted by wronwright on 2007 01 17 at 09:03 AM • permalinkOh, HO! A car posting. Next best thing to an open thread. Looks like a good place to sneak in a two-part Detective Paco episode.
I walked from my air-conditioned room on the first floor of the Hotel Espléndido into the courtyard and it was like slipping into a warm bath. The nights in Miami tended to be hot and humid, but this evening the air was completely still, not the slightest breeze stirring. I strolled around the courtyard and paused under an avocado tree to have a cigarette. I fired one up and blew a puff of smoke into the branches; it hung there like a spider web. Nothing moved in the dead air, except for mosquitoes and the fragrance of jasmine and the sense of vague menace always looming behind the deceptive stillness of a tropical night. Perhaps the menace wouldn’t be vague at all tomorrow morning: I was going to be calling on Haroun’s House of Hummus, first stop in the search for Farouk.
Farouk had gone AWOL from Guantanamo again, and according to the FBI, was planning to take me out for good, this time. I knew that Florida would be his first stop, and Haroun’s place was a clearing house for information among the local Arab population, so, operating on the theory that the best defense is a good offense, I was going to try and track him down. I grabbed a cab the next morning, and headed out to the not-so-classy section of Biscayne Boulevard. There, wedged in between a t-shirt shop and Tío Wang’s Cuban-Chinese Cafetería and Tea House (“Today’s special: boliche con eggroll”), was Haroun’s House of Hummus. I pushed the door open and walked in.
I wouldn’t have been surprised if Sidney Greenstreet had ambled over in a white linen suit with a fez on his head and a fly-swatter in his hand. The place looked like a 1940’s Hollywood set at Warner Brothers (“one (1) standard middle-eastern café, including ceiling fans, lattice-work shutters, small round tables with grimy white table cloths; scattering of sinister characters”). Actually, though, the joint was owned by Haroun Saba, a Lebanese Maronite who was ostentatiously apolitical, but not allergic to the profit motive; I calculated that a cut of the reward money out on Farouk might secure a useful tip. I snagged a table near the door, and just as I was taking a seat, I was run down by one of the customers who was passing by with a cup of coffee. It was a soft and sweet-smelling collision, and the contents of her cup spilled on her, so I didn’t really mind. She had thick, lustrous black hair, piled up on her head like Audrey Hepburn’s, and large, liquid brown eyes, and flawless skin the color of a Kraft caramel cube, and she was dressed to the nines in a low-cut yellow satin dress.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir! Did I spill any on you?”
“No, ma’am, I’m fine. But it looks like your dress is done for.”
She let out a little moan of despair and immediately sat down at my table. She picked up a napkin, dunked it in a glass of water and began rubbing down the stain, which ran in a streak down the front of her dress. She rubbed the thigh area in long, smooth strokes, until the fabric was so saturated that it became nearly transparent. I could tell that her caramel coloring went all over.
“I’m sorry to be such a bother, and I hope you don’t mind; this dress is practically brand new and I just naturally reached for the first water I saw – which, unfortunately, turned out to be your water glass.” She gave me a dazzling smile, and I couldn’t help but think, given her instinct for tidiness, how nice it would have been if she had overturned a whole samovar of coffee on herself. She called the waiter over and asked him to bring me another glass of water. His complexion reminded me of a Kraft product, too; “vegemite”, I think it’s called.
My new friend kept up a steady flow of patter, occasionally casting what looked to me like nervous glances toward the main dining area. Suddenly, she placed her hand on mine, the long graceful fingers pressing down on the back of my hand firmly; I could feel her racing pulse. Cont’d
cont’d from above
“Why don’t you let me make up for all this fuss by buying you breakfast?”
I smiled and happened to glance at a mirror hanging on the wall to the right side of the table. An interesting piece, probably antique, that might have dated from the late Ottoman empire; however, it wasn’t nearly as interesting as the moving images I saw reflected in it.
“Baby, I’m afraid neither one of us is going to have time for breakfast.” I grabbed her by the wrist, stood up, yanked her out of her chair, twisted her arm behind her back, and pulled out Shiny Sal – my stainless steel .38 caliber revolver – all in one seamless movement, and pointed the barrel in the direction of the front door, where two seedy patrons were attempting a quick exit.
“Hold it Farouk!”, I shouted. Farouk, who had been moving speedily to the door, stopped abruptly, his hand on the doorknob. His companion – his old comrade, Ali, if I wasn’t mistaken – wasn’t quite so alert, and practically climbed half-way up Farouk’s back; they looked like two vaudeville comics who hadn’t yet gotten the dancing horse routine down pat.
The tomato squirmed, but I held her tight. “Nice try, honey, trying to distract me that way while your pals escaped. You want to tell me the connection?”
“You bastard!”, was all she’d say. I looked steadily into Farouk’s eyes. “Well, boys, here it is: you can go back to Gitmo in one piece, or I can send you back looking like a couple of colanders plucked from the scratch-and-dent bin at K-Mart. What’ll it be?”
Farouk and Ali conversed hurriedly and heatedly for a moment in their native lingo. I could tell it was Arabic; they sounded like the quality-assurance team of a spittoon factory.
Farouk uttered a monumental sigh, and both characters held up their hands in surrender. The girl began to scream at them. “You are a disgrace to Islam! I am ashamed to have such cousins as you! Why do you not resist.?”
Farouk stared at her sternly. “Shut up, Saleh! Obviously, for the time being, Allah prefers that I return to Cuba. And as for you, Mr. Paco. You are a most vexatious man!”
I grinned at him. “Yeah, that’s always been my problem. In fact, my senior year in high school, I was voted ‘most likely to vex’”. Haroun finally made an appearance, his standard deadpan altered by one slightly raised eyebrow. To ensure his safety, I affected not to know who he was.
“You! Do you work here? Call the local FBI branch and tell them to send some agents over here to pick up these terrorists.” He obeyed, with seeming reluctance, and ten minutes later, the gang was being loaded into the FBI paddy-wagon.
As they were escorting Saleh into the wagon, she took one last look at me, and shouted, “Why don’t you stuff that gun up your . . .”Slam!, went the door.
I turned to one of the FBI guys. “What a pity. Now I’ll never know what she was going to say.”
#5 and #6 Paco
Just bloody wonderful stuff! What a way with words and women!
I’m enthralled, enraptured and enlightened - and obviously I’ve had a glass of chardy too many
Posted by aussiemagpie on 2007 01 17 at 09:11 AM • permalinkI found it amusing to watch a promo for a monster truck derby to be held this Saturday night just around the corner from my gaff, on channel seven, the biggest shill for gerbil worming in the entire country; more amusing still was the promo following a hysterical item by weather guru John Schuter on shrinking polar icecaps and drowning polar bears.
Made my night scarfing tortured cows (wagyu beef) at the Rugby Club much more enjoyable- I’d go to the event, but I’m already pencilled in for the Qld/Samoa game at Cararra.
A death beast has only so many hours in the day (but we’re going down and back in a 600HP GTO, so we cover all bases).
It’s stuff like this that makes uppity Euros and lefty poseurs everywhere hate the USA - an arm of the US military sponsoring a monster truck - that’s truly inspired lefty baiting. Bravo!
Posted by James Waterton on 2007 01 17 at 09:44 AM • permalinkpaco,
Surprisingly I faintly enjoyed your Detective paco story, this time. It’s gratifying being able to read your novella without having to grip the arm rests of my office chair. I suppose your publisher won’t be hearing from my attorney this week.
My only criticism of your story was it was lacking in details. For example, you wrote that the gal was dressed to the nines in a low-cut yellow satin dress. Yes, that’s nice. Was she wearing shoes, say matching yellow high heels? Possibility with 4 inch stilleto heels? Was she wearing stockings perhaps? Of a dark shade? Maybe with seams running down the back?
Who cares about the two Arabs. I want to know more about the dame.
Posted by wronwright on 2007 01 17 at 01:11 PM • permalink#8 No Ash, you cannot have a monster truck.
We do have a hybrid Prius available, in a fairly nauseating green yellow color. I bought it for Karl having overheard Jules Crittenden saying Karl secretly wanted one. It now appears that Crittenden was playing a practical joke all along.
Anyway, my birthday gift to Karl is now available if you’re interested.
Posted by wronwright on 2007 01 17 at 01:19 PM • permalink#13: Was she wearing shoes, say matching yellow high heels? Possibility with 4 inch stilleto heels? Was she wearing stockings perhaps? Of a dark shade? Maybe with seams running down the back?
Yes, yes, yes, yes and yes. I also failed to mention that she’s got a thing for tax attorneys. She can spot one a mile away, and whenever she’s sitting next to one, up close, she crosses her legs and starts to dangle one of those stiletto-heeled shoes, letting them hang precipitously on the end of her toes, kind of jiggling the shoe in tight little circles, and she leans back in her chair and slowly traces the neckline of her plunging blouse with an exquisitely shaped index finger, then she’ll coyly drop her hand and lightly scratch the bottom of her thigh, the soft rasping sound of nails against the silk stockings sounding like . . . whoa! Look at the time! Lunch break’s over, back to work.
Sorry Ash, you’re too low on the minion totem pole. You have to be a full fledged member of the evil death cult known as VRWC before you’re assigned a personal car converted from either an M1A1 tank or a Bradley armored personnel carrier, painted in a delightful pastel color with optional flower decals. Lower down the hierarchy, henchmen are assigned Humvees with optional tow missile launchers. All of these vehicles pull trailers carrying large gasoline tanks. The gas is supplied, free of charge, by Hugo Chavez via his “let’s help the Northeast America” effort. Pity that gas gets unloaded at a Halliburton terminal.
Members and sometimes henchmen are also permitted to borrow alternative means of transport: black helicopters, hover cars, Bird of Prey.
Minions get snot green Prius’s that nobody wants. Below them, rogues and scalawags are transported in Halliburton busses. They have to sit three to a seat.
Posted by wronwright on 2007 01 17 at 03:12 PM • permalinkBTW, the USAF isn’t the only tool of fascist imperialism to get into the rape of Gaiea caper- check out the ADF’s Armygeddon- note also the outrage from Margoteer Richard Tonkin.
what a fuckin’ winner- bogans love it, hippies hate it. I reckon it should turn up at the Byron Bay Blues and Roots Festival, and do so recruiting.
Detective paco always gets the girl, eh?
Posted by The_Real_JeffS on 2007 01 17 at 08:45 PM • permalink#20: Detective Paco prefers reliability to firepower. His quickness and dead-eye make up for the extra “oomph”, and no jamming.
In other words, Detective Paco relies on ballistics controlled by reflexes (but subject to uncontrollable random events) to avoid weapons maintenance.
Methinks that Paco Jr ought to have a few words with Detective Paco about proper PMCS…...
Posted by The_Real_JeffS on 2007 01 17 at 08:50 PM • permalinkWhoops, I sure went barking up the wrong red herring. I was dead certain the dame in the yellow dress was gonna turn out to be Andrea, what with the Florida locale and all.
Does Detective Paco have a paypal account so we can take up a collection for an S&W .500? If that’s too much of a handful to conceal, how about a Taurus Ultralite in .44 Mag?
Posted by Steve Skubinna on 2007 01 17 at 08:56 PM • permalink#25 JonathanH: Noble of you, Jonathan, and much appreciated. But I can’t have you going around Australia barefoot, couldn’t have that on my conscience. So, for the low, low price of only $29.95 - below our cost -I’m going to let you have a pair of Podiatrist-Approved Clodhopper Orthopedics. Peddle in comfort, Jonathan. And from the bottom of my heart, I say: cash or money order, only.
#28- why piss about with peashooters? He needs a DE .50, which not only can chamber rifle-style rounds but can carry 3 extra of ‘em than a revolver.
Check out the video of watermelon carnage, and imagine the melons being replaced with the beturbanned noggins of Fizzy ‘Mo, al Hillbilli and the like. BTW, it’s perfect for that sort of game, as they’re manufactured by Jews and by handling the firing mechanism and quite possibly the ammo, their nasty pig aura is passed on to the projectile- no froliccing with 72 hymen-regenerators for those boyos.
Paco, you gotta keep that stuff coming.. s’been too long between instalments. i suspect the broad and the detective are bound to meet again someday.
As far as this thread on monster trucks goes, if you look closely this Aussie one in Afghanistan is named “Shake -n- Bake”.
You know, this is really a dumb idea. Now all the lefties ate going to boycott monster truck rallies! From there it’s just a short step to leaving NASCAR.
Posted by Steve Skubinna on 2007 01 17 at 11:57 PM • permalinkOK Wronwright, I guess those guidelines make sense, but that doesn’t explain why I’ve been stuck with this freakin’ rickshaw for the past three years. Sure, it made sense when I was undercover in Cambodia on Operation Lucky Hat, but this is just ridiculous. I guess it’s kind of nice not having to worry about driving and all, and I can always use the HOV lanes, but last time I went on a trip, I had to leave for the airport eighteen hours in advance just to make my flight! Not only that, the local police just told me I need to put one of those stupid looking orange triangles on the back of the thing. And not to say anything bad about Mr. Chang, but I’ve heard all of his long-winded stories about 400 times apiece by now.
I could actually put up with all that if absolutely necessary, but have you ever tried picking up a date in one of these things?
Just out of curiosity Wronright, how many more
yearscenturies of loyal service does one need under ones belt before being issued a Death Glider?I mean this avocado green ‘74 Pinto is pretty damn demoralizing…You know, from an evil 23rd degree henchman spreading FUDilicious death and destruction (and mead) throughout the ages sort of perspective.
Just asking.
Paco, it’s always nice to be missed. Been off doing family things, organizing & supplying a retreat we have planned for next weekend in the woods. My little BroncoII, having nearly 200,000 miles on her, is getting a bit…old. I’d like to check out that ‘74 Pinto, but I get nervous driving anything that low to the ground. A HumVee would be nice…what do I have to do to upgrade from ‘groupie’ to minion, or even henchman?
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Sigh. I’ll bet they also serve Nachos on polystyrene plates at these events. Won’t anyone think of Gaia?