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Zap · 07-14-2001, 11:46 PM

The time had finally come as I was tired of taking insults from Mr. Wood. I realize that it is his way of drawing attention away from his lonely pathetic life, but I could only take so much. So I finally challenged him to a race. I tried to meet him halfway somewhere in a civilized state rather than Texas, but he whinned and stuttered and stammered around like Mel Tillis (he was going to have to actually race instead of B.S., so he was becoming nervous). So I had to go to Houston on his home turf. I figured nobody liked him there either so he probably wouldn't have much of an advantage.

After getting directions to the locale of the race (he wouldn't invite me to his home, probably too embarrased by its run down state) I set off. Not much to see on the way there. I knew I had entered Texas when I started to see all the big "cow horn" hood ornaments and cowboy hats. Yeeehaw! I knew the moment of truth was at hand.

I drove to the location of the race. It looked like an old abandoned drag strip out in the middle of nowhere. I could see Steve's plan. He knew he was going to lose to my superior highly tuned hotair and he wanted to keep it a secret. Oh well, the self satisfaction would be enough for me.

After waiting for over two hours I finally saw a car approaching from the distance. As it got closer I could see that it was indeed a turbo regal. The race would be on! My heart was pumping faster than a 2 dollar hooker.

As I approached the car out popped a man about four feet tall and 90lbs. He looked like he was about 97 years old. "Steve," I said, "Is that you?" "Don't hit me Zap, please don't hit me. I'm not at all in good health and I'm so very afraid!" I assured him that I was not going to hit him and all I was interested in was the race.

After he calmed down we agreed to the rules of the race (I think he understood, as he is quite senile at times) and agreed to look at each others cars. He was over looking at my hotair gem (or sleeping standing up, it was hard to tell) while I gazed at his intercooled blunder. The interior was full of empty viagra and tequila bottles, the exterior was baked by the Texas sun and repainted in spots with Rustoleum "rusty metal" primer. Steve bragged that he had done the paint work himself.

After I slapped him around for a couple of minutes to get him out of a senile coma, and pointed him toward his car, he went in and fired his intercooled slowmobile up. Something just didn't sound right. I asked him to pop the hood. He didn't have enough strength to do it without my help, but we finally managed.

He had the intercooler on upside down and had a sparkplug stuck in the oxygen sensor hole. I helped him get things straightened out. By this time I was starting to feel really sorry for the poor guy. It was obvious that any sense he had ever had (which probably wasn't much) had long since gone. I knew what I had to do.

We agreed on the terms of the race and got in our cars. The buzzards kept circling Steve so it was no easy task to get him in his car as they kept making dives to make sure he was still alive. With the buzzards out of the way I waited for Steve to make his move...and waited...and waited. I looked over and he had fallen asleep and one of the buzzards had come back and took a big chunk out of his ear. I chased the buzzard off and woke Steve up and he assured me he was ready this time.

We both revved our engines and took off. We had a quarter mile marked off and I was ahead half way through. Then Steve began to catch up. As we neared the finish line it was neck and neck. Across the finish line and...Steve had won!

Suddenly that four foot tall humpbacked 97 year old wasn't so pathetic any more. He was smiling from ear to partial ear. It wasn't easy to leave my hotaired missle in first gear for an entire quarter mile but I had done it. I had thrown the race.

After Steve calmed down we talked a while (actually I talked and he mumbled a bunch of incoherent jibberish) and parted ways. I knew that I could have easily beaten him, but sometimes winning the race isn't important. I had given a crooked old buzzard eaten, senile, half-wit a reason to smile again and to go on living. I had brightened one old pathetic losers life for one bright shining moment. I had given him a memory that would live forever (or at least till he forgot it) That is what life is all about. That and lots of sex.

07-14-2001, 11:46 PM	#1 (permalink)
Zap Boorn Looser Join Date: May 2001 Posts: 20,980	I Race STEVE WOOD!!! The time had finally come as I was tired of taking insults from Mr. Wood. I realize that it is his way of drawing attention away from his lonely pathetic life, but I could only take so much. So I finally challenged him to a race. I tried to meet him halfway somewhere in a civilized state rather than Texas, but he whinned and stuttered and stammered around like Mel Tillis (he was going to have to actually race instead of B.S., so he was becoming nervous). So I had to go to Houston on his home turf. I figured nobody liked him there either so he probably wouldn't have much of an advantage. After getting directions to the locale of the race (he wouldn't invite me to his home, probably too embarrased by its run down state) I set off. Not much to see on the way there. I knew I had entered Texas when I started to see all the big "cow horn" hood ornaments and cowboy hats. Yeeehaw! I knew the moment of truth was at hand. I drove to the location of the race. It looked like an old abandoned drag strip out in the middle of nowhere. I could see Steve's plan. He knew he was going to lose to my superior highly tuned hotair and he wanted to keep it a secret. Oh well, the self satisfaction would be enough for me. After waiting for over two hours I finally saw a car approaching from the distance. As it got closer I could see that it was indeed a turbo regal. The race would be on! My heart was pumping faster than a 2 dollar hooker. As I approached the car out popped a man about four feet tall and 90lbs. He looked like he was about 97 years old. "Steve," I said, "Is that you?" "Don't hit me Zap, please don't hit me. I'm not at all in good health and I'm so very afraid!" I assured him that I was not going to hit him and all I was interested in was the race. After he calmed down we agreed to the rules of the race (I think he understood, as he is quite senile at times) and agreed to look at each others cars. He was over looking at my hotair gem (or sleeping standing up, it was hard to tell) while I gazed at his intercooled blunder. The interior was full of empty viagra and tequila bottles, the exterior was baked by the Texas sun and repainted in spots with Rustoleum "rusty metal" primer. Steve bragged that he had done the paint work himself. After I slapped him around for a couple of minutes to get him out of a senile coma, and pointed him toward his car, he went in and fired his intercooled slowmobile up. Something just didn't sound right. I asked him to pop the hood. He didn't have enough strength to do it without my help, but we finally managed. He had the intercooler on upside down and had a sparkplug stuck in the oxygen sensor hole. I helped him get things straightened out. By this time I was starting to feel really sorry for the poor guy. It was obvious that any sense he had ever had (which probably wasn't much) had long since gone. I knew what I had to do. We agreed on the terms of the race and got in our cars. The buzzards kept circling Steve so it was no easy task to get him in his car as they kept making dives to make sure he was still alive. With the buzzards out of the way I waited for Steve to make his move...and waited...and waited. I looked over and he had fallen asleep and one of the buzzards had come back and took a big chunk out of his ear. I chased the buzzard off and woke Steve up and he assured me he was ready this time. We both revved our engines and took off. We had a quarter mile marked off and I was ahead half way through. Then Steve began to catch up. As we neared the finish line it was neck and neck. Across the finish line and...Steve had won! Suddenly that four foot tall humpbacked 97 year old wasn't so pathetic any more. He was smiling from ear to partial ear. It wasn't easy to leave my hotaired missle in first gear for an entire quarter mile but I had done it. I had thrown the race. After Steve calmed down we talked a while (actually I talked and he mumbled a bunch of incoherent jibberish) and parted ways. I knew that I could have easily beaten him, but sometimes winning the race isn't important. I had given a crooked old buzzard eaten, senile, half-wit a reason to smile again and to go on living. I had brightened one old pathetic losers life for one bright shining moment. I had given him a memory that would live forever (or at least till he forgot it) That is what life is all about. That and lots of sex.