Friday, July 17, 2015

Mopar Man Advetures : Superbird (part 1)

Hello All:
It looks like we’ve found ourselves in a little mid-July fling with pointless stories about some dude who cruises around in his 1970 Cuda in search of the next piece of ass. Then again, this is the Literary World of Tom Raimbault. We offer plenty of weird stuff, so this shouldn’t be out-of-the-ordinary.
It’s assumed in this mini series of Mopar fantasy stories that the fictional character, Mopar Man, lives somewhere in the early 1970s. He does, after all, purchase the much sought after Mopar muscle cars off the show room floors. Wouldn’t you love to do that?
In today’s featured writing, Mopar Man tells us about a little adventure that he had with a 1971 Plymouth Superbird. Surely you’ve seen them before.  They’re the cars that have the big wing in the back. But I learned something about these cars. As you’ll find out, the Plymouth Superbird was initially rejected by consumers back in its day. Sure; if you find one, today, the Superbird will cost you a fortune. But that wasn’t always the case.
I really hate doing this, but I'm going to have to break the story up into two parts. I'm running short on time for writing these days. But I don't like leaving the blog un-updated for too long.
Have a great weekend! Test drive a Superbird at a car lot near you.
 Mopar Man Advetures : Superbird (part 1)
You know those Plymouth Superbirds that you see at classic car shows? You know: the ones with the over-extended, big-ass wings on the back that often have the Warner Brothers cartoon figure, The Road Runner? Man, those are the goofiest-looking cars, aren't they?
Sure, I hear you. "What's wrong with a Superbird?"
Okay, I'll correct my statement. I'll say that the Superbird was a car that was ahead of its time. I say that because you kids all want them, now. You hope that Chrysler brings them back like they did with the Chargers and Challengers. But you see; back in the day when these things first appeared on the show room floors, nobody wanted them. They were ugliest cars. People hated them. Some people, when first seeing one, didn't think that it was actually a car; just figured that it was some display or prop set up in the middle of the car lot. And then they'd learn that it was an actual car.
"What's with the big-ass wing on the back?" was usually the first question. "Does it fly?"
(I actually found out that these cars really do fly! I'll get to that, later, in my little story.)
A Plymouth Superbird was big and long; shaped funny and looked like something out of a futuristic comic book. They'd sit there on the lot for months, and no one would buy them. Eventually, the dealer would have to move his inventory, and continued dropping the price until some poor sucker with no money would end up buying one. But that guy soon found out that he was the laughing stock of the neighborhood!
My buddy was one of them. He was selling real estate at the time, and drove an old convertible Roadrunner—dirty lemon colored. It wasn't exactly the sort of car that you would drive around with buyers to show houses to. So his boss told him that he needed to get a new car. And he needed something with air conditioning because it was hot that summer, and buyers didn't want to drive around in the heat.
Well my buddy was starting off in his career, and didn't have much money. So when shopping for a car, he landed a great deal. There sat a 1971 Hemi-orange-colored Plymouth Superbird under a canopy of the outdoor lot. It had sat there for nearly a year while the dealer kept dropping the price. Well, one thing led to another; and my buddy had been suckered into buying that thing for a cheap price. But hey, it had air conditioning. That's what his boss wanted, right?
But everyone at his office laughed at him. And his boss complained that the Superbird wasn't what he had in mind.
And we all laughed at him at a party one Friday night when he and his fiancée cruised over in his brand new Superbird! I remember his fiancée didn’t look too thrilled to be sitting in it.
"Man, you got one of those? You must have gotten a good deal!"
He tried to play it cool and brag that his Superbird was a sophisticated business man's car that had a cast iron Hemi V8 with Holley Four-Barrel carburetor. And of course he bragged about the 425 horse power; not something to really boast, considering that the car was a serious gas-guzzler.
Someone ended up saying, "Well if it was me; I'd do one thing: I'd take a hacksaw and cut that wing off the back."
We all laughed. Good times!
Yeah, I thought those Superbirds were the goofiest-looking cars. And just like everyone else, I hated them. But then came a night when that very car got me one of the best pieces of ass I had ever received. Not only that; the car probably even save my life.
Let me tell you a little back story before continuing. It was a Friday around noon, and I was just returning from my lunch break. At the time I worked as a construction laborer, and was certainly dressed for the job in my baggy, old jeans with holes in them, faded pocket t-shirt, and a dirty pair of work boots. Just as I tossed the empty bags from McDonald's out the window of my car, I happened to look through one of the windows of a shop and saw a beautiful brunette in a pair of tight slacks and a dark, green blouse. I remember that blouse so well! When she walked, her tits totally bounced in it. It made you want to just cop a feel. Man, she was pretty. Her hair was long and shiny.
"Whoa! What is that?" I yelled out loud. I whipped my 1970 Cuda around and head back to what I soon learned was an antique dealer. Lunch break would soon be over, but I just had to park in front of the store and rev my engine good and loud to attract her attention. I quickly glanced in the mirror to make sure I looked good. Back in those days I had shoulder-length hair with low side burns and full mustache. There was a lot going for me in that moment: good looks and a bad-ass Cuda. So I stepped out and entered the shop
There were a few old people in this place just looking at all the old furniture and junk. She seemed like she wasn't busy, so I carefully approached. And the closer I got, the prettier she looked. I didn't even know that women like this existed. She must have been Spanish or Italian with that olive skin; long, black, shiny hair and dark eyes. Did you ever just see a stranger and want to kiss them? Well she was one of those!
She looked at me like I didn't belong there. I mean looking back, I now realize that I was dirty and sweaty; probably not the sort of person you would expect to shop for antiques. She almost had a disgusted look on her face and sounded annoyed while asking, "Can I help you?"
"You sure can." I answered with all the confidence I could muster. "I was driving past the store and saw something that really caught my attention... You see that car?" I asked while pointing out my Cuda.
"Yeah...? The one that you revved and made a lot of noise with just a moment ago?" she asked.
"Right, that one!" I answered. "Well, while driving by I saw you through the window. And I thought to myself that you would look really good sitting in the passenger seat of my car. So what are you doing after work? Wanna go out, tonight, and cruise around?"
She was flabbergasted, and I don't mean that in a good way. She was so cold while answering, "Sir, if you are looking for a date, then there are a lot of bars in town that you can go to." Then she walked over to one of the customers and began discussing the antiques.
I didn't want to be late coming back from lunch, so I stormed out of the antique shop, and peeled out of the parking lot. I was not happy. Although she was so pretty, there was just something about the way she spoke and acted that made you think she was some stuck up bitch—like too good for everyone. In fact, my new name for her was "Sweet-ass".
You know what a "sweet-ass" is, right?
A sweet-ass isn’t necessarily an ass that's really nice. Instead, it's one of those sophisticated, educated, rich women that are too fucking good for everyone. You want her ass, but you can't have it because it's too good for you.—sweet ass: you don't deserve it!
And that's what inspired me to change my strategy with her. You know that song from ZZ Top, 'sharp dressed man'? Actually, that song wouldn't have come out until about ten years later. But the concept of being a sharp-dressed man has been known since the beginning of time. Don't let your friends fool you. Don't let them tell you that women want a roughed-up guy in dirty, stinky clothes. Oh, some do; maybe those sweet-ass bitches that live in mansions and watch the landscapers out the window. They've never had one of those, but have had plenty of wealthy, sophisticated, sharp-dressed gentlemen. The same can be said about the rest of the women out there. They've had plenty of hard-working average guys like you and me; but can't help but become intrigued when they see a sharp dressed man.
But how to change my image to convince Sweet-ass that I was good enough for her: that was the question. I went to the barber shop the following morning—a Saturday—and got a haircut. I even had him cut my sideburns off. I considered shaving my mustache, but that might have been too drastic. Returning home, I was clean, cut and shaven. But I still wasn't sophisticated-looking. I needed a suit. But where could I get one? It would be easy to blow an entire paycheck on a suit, and I didn't want to do that.
Now on this particular weekend, my buddy—the same guy who owned the Plymouth Superbird—and his fiancée had gone out of town. I can’t remember where it is that they went. And for some reason, he left the Superbird at home. Maybe he learned how bad the gas mileage was. Anyway, I was asked to come over a couple times a day to check on things; feed and let his dog out. I agreed, of course. After all, what are friends for?
Well it was around noon on Saturday when I had gone to his house, and was suddenly hit with a brilliant idea. My buddy sold real estate. And back in those days, real estate agents were supposed to wear suits because it was professional. I'm sure he wouldn't have minded if I borrowed one of the suits in his bedroom closet.
Now keep in mind that this was back in the day; a time when fashion was much different than it is in modern times. My buddy had a collection of what would be described by today's standards as leisure suits. I chose a plaid, light-blue colored suit with a matching shirt that looked like something that Mr. Furley from Three's Company would have worn. I didn't know how to wear a tie, so I didn't bother. I slipped on a pair of leather buckle, hard-soled shoes. They looked like something The Beetles would have worn. There; I was now a sharp-dressed man and looked good.
But what about my car? What if Sweet-ass recognized my sporty Cuda from yesterday?
After some careful consideration, I convinced myself that my buddy wouldn't have minded if I borrowed his Plymouth Superbird. It was supposed to be a nice ride, and did have air conditioning. It was going to be hot that night. If taking a sweet-ass bitch out for a date, she would surely expect to sit in a car with air conditioning.
So by early afternoon, I casually cruised through town in my buddy's Plymouth Superbird until reaching the antique shop where Sweet-ass worked. I could see her right through the window, and she looked great! Unlike yesterday, I did not rev the engine to catch her attention. I was a sophisticated and refined gentleman.
I entered the shop that was empty of any customers, but didn't bother to approach Sweet-ass. I had to play it cool, you know? Instead, I browsed some of the antique furniture. It didn't take long before Sweet-ass approached me with a beaming smile. Just like the song from ZZ Top, she was crazy for me because I was a sharp-dressed man.
"Can I help you with anything?" she asked.
"I was just getting some ideas on antique furniture." I explained. "See, I'm an executive manager of a company that plans of releasing furniture that appears antique."
"Oooo! I've heard of that, before." said Sweet-ass. "I heard that people are looking for brand-new furniture that has the antique look. What company are you from?"
That's when I froze for a second. What could I tell her?" "Well, it's actually a secret." I answered.
"A secret? Why?"
"We're not in business, yet." I began to explain. "We don't want competition to know what we're doing. It's the whole top-secret business information stuff, you know?"
"I see..."
My lies just continued to grow and grow. But I really had her enchanted. She believed everything! It's because I wore a suit and looked all sophisticated. I added more to my story, "Rather than manufacture this sort of furniture, we're thinking of seeking out actual antique furniture and making it appear new."
"Really?" she asked.
"Yeah, I was thinking that maybe you had connections, and could supply me with large amounts of antique furniture."
Sweet-ass paused for a few seconds and appeared to be in deep thought. Did she find my story strange? Did she catch my bluff? Or maybe she believed me and was really interested. "Antique shows are a good place to start." she finally suggested. Then she waved me on to a room behind the shop. "Come back here with me. Let's talk."
Sweet-ass actually escorted me into a small conference room behind the store that had comfy, antique furniture as seats. It wasn't like something you'd expect to see at a big company where executives sit and have their meetings. It was like a lounge with antique furniture.
"Coffee...?" she suggested. "We have tea... soda... I can get you some wine."
"Wine sounds great!" I answered. “It's hot outside, and it's the afternoon. Who wants to drink coffee on a day like this?"
"You know, you're right." she agreed. "Let's drink some wine and talk business.”
For nearly two hours I sat in that room and bull-shitted about my bogus company. Sometimes she'd briefly step away to help a customer out in the shop. But throughout that time, together, we finished off a bottle of wine; and it seemed like we shared chemistry. I actually started to feel bad that I referred to her as "Sweet-ass". But you know; I had to turn myself into someone who I wasn't, just to have a chance with her. That's what a sweet-ass does; she turns you into a sell-out.
Towards the end of our afternoon, I looked at my wristwatch—actually borrowed that from my buddy—and announced that I had to meet with some people. Then I casually asked, "You're not married, are you?"
She gave me a weird look.
I quickly explained, "The reason I ask is because I was wondering if you wanted to have dinner and talk more about this. Maybe we can meet, tonight, and go over some plans on purchasing furniture?"
 See, I heard somewhere that sophisticated people go about romance a little differently. They have to pretend like they are not interested in anything beyond a business relationship. Dinners, luncheons, or meeting at secluded places are purely for business. A man and woman who might discuss a brand of sofas to release might say, "Well let's make sure that this sofa is good enough for fucking." The fucking that follows is purely business. And that's the sort of thing I had in mind with Sweet-ass. She wasn't like a normal woman. I couldn't let her know that I was interested in fucking her.
She hesitated for a moment.
I quickly added, "I mean if you have a boyfriend, and you don't feel right, I understand."
"No, no; it's not that." she reassured me. "Could you be here later tonight, like around 9:30?"
Of course I agreed. And I later figured out why she needed me to meet her at the shop, after dark.

To be continued…

Tuesday, July 14, 2015

Mopar Man Adventures--titty fuck chaser

Hello All:
I forget how we got on the discussion; but I was talking with a coworker last Friday about classic cars. He knows I'm a writer. At some point I mentioned that I should write stories about people who cruise around in their classic Mopar muscle cars, take women to the cornfields and bop the hell out of them before taking them home.
"There's probably a market for that." he answered with a giggle.
Now I would never sell out to being a fantasy Mopar writer who produces stories that might be found in Hot Rod Magazine. But I have one for you as today's featured writing.
So what is a Mopar Man adventure story?
I believe the best sort of stories involving muscle cars from the 60s and 70s might be told by someone who lived in that age, and purchased these sorts of cars off the showroom floors. He might preach about how things were "back in the day" and might even imply that it was better than today.
I'd have the artwork for this story, but I'll have to do it later. You see, I'm at work. I wouldn't dare publish artwork for a story titled, Titty Fuck Chaser. Use your imagination...
Oh, there is a second Mopar Man Adventures story in the pipeline. So if you like today's featured writing, there's more on the way!
Mopar Man Adventures--titty fuck chaser
People call me Mopar Man because I have always driven some sort of car created by Dodge or Plymouth my entire life. And usually they were the muscle cars that people seek out today. Back in my day, I purchased these right off the showroom floor; that is, except, for my first car which was a 1962 Belvidere. It was a hand-me-down from my father. My junior year of high school, he purchased a brand-new 1964 Dodge Charger, and gave me his used car to get around in while I was in high school. And I think that might have been what started it all for me. You see, my father always drove cars from Mopar. They say that men trust the brands that their fathers patronized. I guess for me it was Mopar.
Now this Belvidere was sweet ride—needless to say. I learned pretty quickly that I could go up against some of the other street machines out there back in the day. I usually had to work Friday nights at the ice cream parlor—my part time job in high school—as a soda jerk. My boss was pretty cool, though. He just gave me Saturdays off so that I could have some sort of weekend. So on Saturday afternoon I was sure to wash and wax my prided Belvidere; sometimes change the oil or make any repairs. We did that sort of thing back then. By late Saturday night, I was cruising up and down the main drag—sometimes with my friends; other times with some bitchin' babe—in search of races. I'd win some; I'd lose some; got a couple speeding tickets. But hey, that's the nature of the sport, right?
Fast-forward some years to when I was done with high school and working—my bachelor years. By then I was driving a 1970 Plymouth Cuda; 383 four-barrel that boasted 335 horse-power. That was a mean machine back in those days! And it still is! I bought it right off the showroom floor for $3800. I would describe the paint job as being this dull, burgundy color. The interior was mostly black with leather, bucket seats; a wooden-type of decor around the dash control panel and shifter which was the slap-stick type. The speedometer went up to 150 MPH. And yes, I had gotten pretty close to burying that needle! But I just couldn't! Let's just say that it started to get pretty scary at speeds over 120 MPH! 
But you know; I was mostly retired from my days of cruising up and down the main drag in search of races. "Leave those things to the kids.”—you know what I mean? It gets old after a while. Life with my Cuda, instead, was centered on the never-ending quest for women. Like most guys, I wanted to enjoy every final moment of my bachelor years—sew my royal oats if you know what I mean. I'd probably be married in a couple of years, so I might as well have made the best of it. And that's pretty much what I'd do. I'd go to bars and parties, meet some woman, take her out to some remote location to fool around, and then shuffle her off for my next quest. Oh, I had a main squeeze—you know—girlfriend. It's nice to have some stability in your life. But what she didn't know didn't hurt her.
I think one of my most memorable nights out in my Cuda was with this chunky girl named Heidi. I met her at a party on Friday night and found out that her parents were both Swedish. So she was a 100% Swedish girl with ultra-white skin, long white hair, huge tits—I mean HUGE, a round and cushy ass, and some shapely, meaty thighs that she showed off really well in a pair of cutoffs. I was having heart palpitations from the moment I saw her at that party. But there were people around who knew my girlfriend (not sure where she was that Friday night). I couldn't leave with this chick without people telling my girl. So I played it cool and discreetly made plans to hook up with her the following night—a Saturday. That Swedish girl's tits were fucking amazing, and I really needed to have them! Now I was supposed to go out with my girlfriend the following night. Saturday nights were our night. So I had to kind of lie to her and make something up. I think I told her that I had to help my one of my buddies with moving or something. But as I later found out, she didn't buy it. (We'll get to that part later in my little story.)
So it was Saturday evening around twilight as I sat in my Cuda and browsed the collection of eight-track cassettes for some music that would set the mood. Are you old enough to remember those?—eight tracks? If not, look them up some time. These were before cassettes. Then again, maybe you are not old enough to remember cassettes? In any case (for those who are young), just like CDs, we had a way of loading select music into our car stereo instead of listening to ordinary AM/FM radio.
"The Rolling Stones...?" I quietly read while thumbing through my eight track cassettes. I had them in my collection, but had been listening to them a little too much. I needed something different.
"The Doors...?" Yeah, they were great. But I was hesitant to play them on date night. It can get a little deep...
"Led Zeppelin...?" People were starting to get into them; but to be honest; I still wasn't sure what to think of them at the time.
Jethro Tull...? Maybe..."
I then grabbed Steppenwolf. "Yeah, this is we need for a night like this." I slipped the cassette in the player and discovered that I was about halfway through the song, 'magic carpet ride'—just before the instrumental portion that reminds you of cruising some desert highway on a motorcycle.
Now this was the back in the day. Everyone was doing it! Hell yeah, I reached into the glove compartment for my baggie of joints and lit one up before peeling off in my Cuda with engine roaring and Steppenwolf blasting in quadraphonic audio. It was a nice summer night and the windows were rolled down. I toked away at my joint while imagining all the dirty things I was going to do to that chunky Swedish girl, Heidi. I was going to squeeze, suck and fuck those tits! Maybe I'd get a blow job out of it. But deep down inside, I was a little worried about my girlfriend. We kind of got into a little fight on the phone. Like I said, earlier, she wasn't buying the whole, "I have to help my buddy move." story. As she argued, "Who moves at night?"
"Well he works a night job, so he sleeps during the day." I explained. I hated lying to my girlfriend. But if you had seen Heidi, you would have done the same.
Towards the end of my joint, nearing Heidi's residence, 'magic carpet ride' was long over and the song, 'rock me' was playing. This was a great song to cruise around and get high to, especially towards the end when it breaks into that extended drum and percussion solo. Dope smoke blowing everywhere in your car, and the energy building up with quadraphonic drums and chanting; for an extra effect, puff away at your joint like it's a cigar and imagine that the smoke is part of some ritual. And don't worry; you're not wasting any dope while doing this because you're already pretty high.
I flipped the roach out the window upon turning onto Heidi's street. While thudding over the curb, I honked the horn. Almost immediately she emerged from out of the house and into my car. Oh, she looked amazing! She had her long, white hair nice and straight. She wore this sleeveless shirt that barely allowed enough room for her big tits that bounced around as she walked. And like last night, she wore a pair of cutoff shorts that showed off her shapely, meaty thighs. I just wanted to lick her all over once she sat down in the passenger seat of my Cuda. And of course she wore perfume!
People didn't talk much in cars those days when it was summer. The engines were noisy and the music was loud. Just a simple, "Hi!" was all that was needed. I peeled out of her driveway and tore down the street; must have left about ten feet of rubber in front of her house. I'm sure her parents were pissed, but I didn't care. The wind rushed in through the windows and blew Heidi's pretty hair all over the place. When it was time to turn the corner, I peeled more rubber and floored the accelerator. I must have exited the subdivision at about seventy miles per hour! And you see; chicks like it when you drive like that. They know you are trying to impress them. As for Heidi, her pale face had suddenly gotten some color to it. Oh yes, my Cuda and crazy driving was really turning that Swedish girl on!
At some point we reached a red light, and I finally turned the music down. "So what do you want to do, tonight?" I asked.
"I don't know. What did you have in mind?"
I revved-up the 383 cubic inches of Mopar engine because everyone did that sort of thing back in those days. The exhaust from cars back in those days had a distinct smell, and my Cuda smelled great!
I looked at the fuel gauge and could see I had just under a quarter of a tank of gas. I would have to refill soon. Then again, I was pretty sure I could make it to a certain gas station that was located just before the desolate highway that led to the dark cornfields. There was a drive-through burger joint across the street from this gas station. Maybe Heidi would like to eat.
"YEAH, EARLIER!" she yelled back.
Just then, the light turned green. The tires peeled and gripped into the pavement as I wacked the slap-stick from second... third... fourth... as we eventually neared 80 MPH. The driver and front passenger seats of my Cuda were equipped with shoulder and lap belts. But no one wore seat belts in those days. They were too cumbersome, and you felt kind stupid wearing them. I mean safety in a sports car? Come-on!
After over five minutes of travel, I was starting to get a little worried that we would run out of gas. The tank was now almost on E. And running out of gas on a date was not cool. I just hoped that luck would be on my side, and that we would make it to the gas station in time.
I must have been running on gas fumes by the time I pulled in to fuel up. In fact, I think I might have heard the engine clunk a couple of times before then. It was a relief to park at a gas pump and turn the engine off.
Seconds later, a gas station attendant approached my window.
"Fill it up." I ordered.
"Okay, do you want me to check under the hood?" he suggested.
"No, I already did. Just gas..." See, you had to be careful back in those days. Gas station attendants pumped the gas for you, and offered to check the oil and other fluids under the hood. But in this seemingly courteous service, they would try to rip you off by telling you that were low on oil, or needed a new air filter when you really didn't. That's why you had to take care of your car on your own, and never trust gas station attendants beyond pumping gas. Even still, you wanted to make sure that they filled the tank up. If you had a few dollars and told one of them, "$3 regular..." they might have pocketed a dollar for themselves. Aren't you glad gas stations are self-serve nowadays?
All fueled up with windshield cleaned, I next pulled into the parking lot of the burger joint and over to the drive through.
"What do you want?" I asked Heidi.
"All this cruising around is making me hungry." began Heidi. "I'll have two cheeseburgers with all the works, a large fry, and chocolate malt."
Damn, that Swedish girl could really eat! But then again, she was big-boned and on the chunky side. I watched her tear into the bag of food and shove handfuls of fries in her mouth as we peeled out of the parking lot and back onto the highway. Always remember, it's okay to let a chick eat in the passenger seat of your Mopar. As for me, I had only a soda. That joint I smoked before picking Heidi up had given me a case of cotton mouth. But at some point I was getting hungry while watching Heidi much away on her second burger.
"LET ME HAVE SOME OF YOUR FRIES!" I shouted over the roaring engine, music and wind blasting through the windows.
"SURE, GO AHEAD!" agreed Heidi.
See, this is how dates were—nice and simple. They weren't like today when you need considerable financing to wine and dine your girlfriend; then treat her to some fine and expensive entertainment, afterwards. Go broke…
Fuck no!
Back in the day you would pull into her driveway and honk the horn. You'd drive around for the night, maybe shove a couple burgers down her throat, and then take her to some cornfield to bop the hell out of her before bringing her back home. If you really liked each other and hit it off well, then you would keep going out. You'd go to parties together on Saturday nights or summer barbeques during the day. But then, sometimes, you'd find out that some other guy put the moves on her at a party and left with her—left you all alone. But that was okay. You simply looked for another chick at the party to leave with, take to hotel or cornfield to bop the hell out of her and bring her home. Love was wild and free back in those days. Back in my day, everyone knew what they wanted, and they went for it!
Just as Heidi was finishing her chocolate malt, I spotted a set of headlights rapidly gaining on us in the rearview mirror. We were traveling on a dark, two lane highway out in the middle of cornfields. The car was apparently going faster than my 70 MPH as it quickly moved over into the opposite lane to pass. I wouldn't have thought anything of it, but at the precise moment that the vehicle was next to me, the driver apparently shifted the transmission into neutral to rev his engine before slipping back into gear to take off. Whoever did this was obviously making a statement. The taillights told me that it was some sort of Chevelle SS—probably a 1967.
"That sucker wants to race!" I yelled out while slapping the shifter two gears down. 383 cubic inches of Mopar engine roared forward and slowly gained on the Chevelle.
80 MPH... 90 MPH... 100 MPH... 110 MPH... I finally made it a few feet behind the Chevelle, and moved over into the left lane to pass. But then the engine of the Chevelle suddenly roared and began to inch forward. The driver would not let me pass.
"FUCK YOU!" I shouted. My bad ass Plymouth Cuda was not going to be beat my some punk in a Chevy Chevelle. Not that there is anything wrong with Chevy muscle cars; but hey, I'm the Mopar Man! A Chevy was not going to beat me!
So there the two of us roared neck and neck down the dark, two-lane highway. The speedometer continued to climb: 120 MPH... 130 MPH... 140 MPH... Remember when I said that speeds over 120 MPH were a bit scary. Well this was one of those moments. I glanced over to Heidi and was surprised to see that she calmly sipped away at her chocolate malt. The speed didn't even faze her!
And then a street racer's worst nightmare happened. The flash of rolling police lights could be seen in the rearview mirror.
"OH SHIT!" I yelled.
Heidi looked behind her, "UH OH! YOU BETTER STOP!"
Yes, the police had spotted me and the driver of the Chevelle racing on the dark highway. I'm sure the two engines made plenty of noise and could be heard for miles. The penalties were steep for racing. I was in big trouble!
Now there's a weird trick when it comes to being busted for drag racing. Ideally, both drivers are supposed to pull over when they see the police lights in the mirror. But sometimes, one of the drivers might up the ante by fleeing the scene when the other driver obeys the law and pulls over. It's a gamble at that point. Will the officer simply let the fleeing vehicle go while concentrating on the driver who stopped? Or will he pursue the fleeing vehicle to handle two offenses: drag racing, and failing to pull over for the police?
Well it turned out that the driver of the Chevelle actually obeyed the law, and pulled off the highway. That left me as the guy to up the ante and flee the scene. Of course I didn't drop it into a lower gear and take off. It was my aim to "sneak" away and pretend that I hadn't seen the lights in the rearview mirror. And if the officer decided to chase me, I would simply pull over and coyly explain that I didn't see him until then. It was worth the gamble. Like I said before, penalties were steep for high speed drag racing. Aside from that, I was almost at the secret spot where my summertime dates usually ended up at. It was a narrow, private, gravel path that led deep into some farmer's cornfield.
Speaking of which, this path was probably some one hundred feet up ahead. I was going over 100 MPH, and needed to slam the shifter into third gear as a brake-assist. I don't know how I did it; but just at the precise moment, I managed to turn hard at my secret entrance without squealing the tires. From there I whizzed into the cornfield and immediately turned off the lights.
Now it just so happened that I would learn the results of my gamble that evening. Studying the rearview mirror while slowly driving through the pitch-black cornfield, I saw the police headlights streak by on the highway. Apparently the cop decided to chase after me. Had it not been for my secret spot, I would have been busted. The cop must have lost sight of me on the highway as went down a slight incline. So I scored twice! I won the drag race with the Chevelle, and I managed to escape the police. And I was about to score a third time with Heidi, who surely had been turned on by all the excitement.
I ejected my Steppenwolf eight track cassette that was playing, 'Born to Be Wild'. Yeah, it's a great song, but not quite the one to put you in the mood while slowly coasting through the cornfields.
"Whew... we made it!" I exclaimed while patting my hand on Heidi's juicy, meaty thigh. I had wanted to touch those thighs all night—among other things. "You like my escape route?" I asked while turning the volume down on the radio. It was tuned to some station during a commercial break.
"As long as you don't get lost in here." answered Heidi.
I looked at the empty bag and finished chocolate malt on passenger side floor. "You done with that?"
"Yeah..." answered Heidi.
"Well give me that." I ordered. The bags and wrappers were thrown out of the car window. That's the way we cleaned out our cars back in the day!
At some point, I put the car in park and turned off the engine. "Let's just sit here for a while and let the cop give up on trying to find us." I suggested. I certainly wasn't going to tell Heidi that this was my secret spot where I planned on having fun with her. In less than a minute, I stroked my fingers through her long, white hair while looking into her eyes. "You look pretty, tonight."
"Thank you." she answered.
I leaned in for a kiss then pulled away. "You're welcome." I could see in her eyes that she expected more. I mean she knew why we were here. She wasn't stupid. Like I said before, everyone knew what they wanted back in the day and went for it. I locked lips with Heidi and started sucking face. Her breath tasted like a juicy cheeseburger with greasy, salty fries. And I liked it!
My hand touched her meaty, silky thigh and began to slowly stroke nice and easy. Inch by inch, my fingers carefully worked their way up the cuff of her cutoff shorts.
Heidi's hand did not push mine away. She wanted me to touch her.
Then I started to think about those big Swedish tits. I just had to see them naked and touch them. At that point, both hands reached over and lifted up her sleeveless shirt. Let's just say she was gorgeous chunk of woman with bra that needed to be pulled off. I wasted not a second in doing this, and then flung it in the back along with her shirt. My dick swelled up so hard when finally putting my hands on both of those tits. They were smooth and white with fat areolas and soft, pink nipples.
I turned into a maniac at that point and kissed her like crazy while lowering the passenger seat. I undid my jeans and pulled out my hard cock. Then I straddled Heidi's chest; took hold of both tits that were as huge as mountains, and wedged my dick in the middle. Oh, it felt so good. Her tits were so warm and soft and easy to fuck. And she must have still been hungry. She must have been in the mood for a hot dog because she eagerly leaned her head down and sucked mine right in. With my cock wedged in between Heidi's massive tits, I watched in pure delight as her pretty, Swedish pale face with light blue eyes that gazed up at mine sucked away at my cock. She made this gulping sort noise while doing it, and kept looking up at me to make sure I enjoyed the whole thing. Someone must have taught her that trick because she did it really well.
Just to reassure her that she would get the same; my hands reached behind, and unsnapped her cutoff shorts. I unzipped the crotch for extra room, and slid my hands under her panties and started to play with her hairy pussy. Already it was wet with excitement. And let me tell you: I love sucking pussy! I couldn't wait for a little muff-diving for desert!
Now there's this old trick that we guys like to do before going out on a date. Has there ever been a time when you got so excited that you blew your load a little early? Damn, I hate when that happens! Well to prevent that from happening, I've found that it's best to "change the oil"—if you know what I mean—before leaving that night. This prevents you from blowing your load in the first five minutes. You can keep going and going; really enjoy that hot babe to the fullest.
Well I did this trick before leaving that night. But this was a night when I wished I hadn't. With hands down Heidi's wet panties, and my cock wedged between her big tits while receiving the blow job of my life—just as my mind was starting to slip into that zone of orgasmic ecstasy—I got this funny feeling that we soon would not be alone. No, it wasn't the police that I worried about. It was my main squeeze who I feared would show up. See, I took Heidi to my secret spot; a big mistake if you want to fool around with another chick. My girlfriend had been to this spot with me before. And if she suspected something funny going on that night, she would have surely made the trip out to see if I was there.
Desperately I wanted to finish with Heidi so that we could get out of there and avoid an encounter with my girlfriend. But no matter how good that blowjob felt, I just couldn't cum. That's why I straddled her face and began to violently fuck her sweet lips and nearly her throat. I was cool with this maneuver. I didn't want the poor girl to gag on my cock. But I pumped and pumped... fucked and fucked. The top of her tits were now being used as a seat to bounce off of as my raging cock bobbed up and down in her mouth. And if I liked the noise of her sucking from before, it was now like nothing I had ever heard. To give anything to hear that just one more time in my life...
Finally, I was ready to cum. I pulled my dick out, sat back and wedged it in between her tits. With a few more pumps I blew a gooey load of my hot cum in between her cleavage. I wish I would have had more time to check it out; but I could have sworn I saw my cum just steaming and vaporizing off her chest. It was beautiful. Then again, maybe it was just a hallucination.
"I think someone's coming." I warned while pulling up my pants.
"Like you?" asked Heidi, jokingly, with pun intended.
"No, seriously!" I continued to warn. "I thought I heard something." With that, I started the car and proceeded to drive forward without the headlights on.
"Do you have something to wipe this up with?" asked Heidi. She was referring to the cum all over her chest.
"Yeah, in the glove compartment." I answered. "There should be some napkins in there. Throw it out the window when you're done.
As Heidi cleaned herself off with a disgusted and very disappointed look on her face, I continued to inch forward. It was then that I realized how true my worst nightmare was. You see, there are two entrances to this cornfield. I would always take the highway to the same entrance, and then exit through the other side onto a gravel road that eventually connected to a main road which could be joined to the highway. Up ahead I could see a pair of headlights about the distance of two city blocks away. My girlfriend silently drove through the opposite way to surprise and catch me.
"Oh shit!" I exclaimed.
"What???" asked Heidi.
"I've got to go the other way!" I informed her. Unfortunately, the only way to do this was to put the shifter in reverse, and back out of the cornfield while my girlfriend followed. And there was no telling if she had spotted me. For now, the headlights were off. As for brakes, there was no way I could use those! Any sort of light would indicate that a car was in here. And this was my secret spot. Whose car would be in here?
And so I continued to quietly back out of the cornfield with stalks slapping onto the roof and side doors. I wished it hadn't been so noisy. To make matters worse, I couldn't see a thing! I had to go by pure intuition while traveling backwards. Occasionally I would turn my head forward to see if my girlfriend had gotten any closer. It seemed like she was gaining on me. Would she hear my engine? I hoped that her 1970 Mach 1 Mustang would have made just as much noise as my Cuda so that she couldn't hear me.
Then, finally, I hit the main road. With headlights still off, I turned and quietly took off without gunning the engine. It was a nerve-wracking experience to slowly increase in speed: 30 MPH... 40 MPH... 50 MPH... 60 MPH... It would only be a matter of time before my girlfriend exited the cornfield and turned onto the highway.
At about 65 MPH, I saw the headlights of her Mach 1 Mustang reach the highway and turn in the same direction that we had turned. Then I heard the roar of her engine. Did she see the silhouette of a car in the distance with its lights off? Did she suspect that, maybe, it was me trying to escape without her detecting? All I remember was that those lights were gaining on me at lightning speed. I slapped the shifter down into a low gear and took off at open throttle.
70 MPH... 80 MPH.. 90 MPH... 100 MPH... I wasn't loosing the headlights of that Mach 1 Mustang. My girlfriend was determined to see just what sort of car raced ahead of her without its lights on. All she needed was to recognize the back of my Cuda, or see the license plate. In fact, she didn't need to see anything! She already knew because she was a woman. Women know things like this and don't need proof.
110 MPH... 120 MPH... 130 MPH...
"WHY DON'T YOU TURN YOUR LIGHTS ON???" shouted Heidi over the roar of the engine and the blasting wind.
I shrugged my shoulders and smiled sheepishly. "What if it's a cop?"
The pursuit continued on and neared speeds of close to 150 MPH. After some moments, Heidi finally shouted, "SO IS THAT YOUR GIRLFRIEND BACK THERE?"
I didn't answer. She knew. And I could tell from her body language and the look on her face that she had figured it out. She was disappointed. She was nothing more than a little fun for a Saturday night, and didn't even get her payback for that great blow job that she had given. I must have looked like a total scumbag at that moment.
Just then, I saw the flash of police lights about a half mile behind us. "AWE, MAN!" Part of me wanted to pull over and allow my girlfriend to escape. But the other part of me realized that this would lead to her actually seeing me driving my Cuda with another chick in my car.
And then I couldn't believe what happened. My girlfriend pulled over for the cop, and he chose her to be the one to ticket. I felt so bad. They got my baby. I was the one who deserved the punishment. Instead, I let my girlfriend take the hit. Somehow I was going to have to make it up to her; maybe give her a few months of freebies—you know, eat her pussy without expecting anything in return. (Unless she wanted to, of course.)              
The rest of the evening lasted about ten minutes as I drove Heidi home. Not a word was exchanged between the two of us. She was pissed. She was so mad that by the time I pulled into her driveway, she didn't even bother to say, "Good night." She just hopped out and slammed the door. It was the last time I would ever see her. Then again, maybe that's a good thing. Probably by now she's a fat, old beast and a total bitch.
I stopped at a White Castle late night drive through a couple towns away after dropping Heidi off. It was a rough night for me. I was coming down from that joint I had smoked; I had a wicked case of the munchies; I had been involved in high pursuits with both my girlfriend and the police. And let’s not forget that fantastic blow job that I had received from Heidi.
While driving the lonely highway in my '70 Plymouth Cuda and munching on White Castle hamburgers, I listened to The Door on my eight track player. It just so happened that 'Alabama Song (whisky bar)' played.
Jim Morison summarized my life's purpose in those days,
"Show me the way
To the next little girl
Oh, don't ask why
Oh, don't ask why

For if we don't find
The next little girl
I tell you we must die
I tell you we must die
I tell you, I tell you
I tell you we must die."
And that, my friends, was life with a 1970 Plymouth Cuda. It was a never-ending quest for the next piece of ass. You changed women as often as you filled your tank of gas.
Speaking of which, I was under a quarter of a tank of gas.
The End!

Friday, July 10, 2015


Hello All:
I want to share with you a new app that I downloaded this morning. It's the DigiHUD Speedometer. No, it's not one of those health apps that allow you to track how many steps you take in a day. It's a working speedometer that can be used in your car. You see, my wife and kids are taking off for Wisconsin this weekend. Of course I hope they are safe on the roads, and have a pleasant ride up. That's why I told my wife to take my brand new Dodge Dart. I hope they take care of it!
This leaves me with my wife's Ford Escort. It's a nice car--a little old--but still functional. But one of the problems is the fact that the analog speedometer bounces up and down. There is no way to determine how fast you are going on the roads. The DigiHUD Speedometer is GPS monitored which means that you get accurate tracking and report of how fast you are going. So if you have an old car with bouncy speedometer; no need to pay money to have it fixed. Just download the free DigiHUD Speedometer.
Speaking of my new Dodge Dart, I just took an online survey from Dodge to report my overall satisfaction with my recent purchase. You see; I'm so happy with the car that I want to make sure that the folks at Dodge keep up the good work.
The Dodge Dart
Perhaps you've been considering the Dodge Dart as a new car. If so, I'm sure you are doing the same thing that I had been doing for a couple of months before finally making the purchase. You occasionally see the Dodge Dart on the road, and can't help but notice that there is something unique about them. You might go online, do a little research; and are delighted to learn that not only are these cars capable of yielding 41 MPG (Dart Aero), but they cost under $20K!
Oh, there are plenty of similar cars from other manufacturers for the same price and same gas mileage. Still, you have your heart set on a Dart. What is it? Why are you so attracted to this particular car?
As my wife commented, "They're cute."
It's not just the "cuteness" that catches your attention. It's something deeper. You see, the Dart invokes the whole Mopar-classic spirit. The Dart,  after all, was part of the classic Mopar family; the Chargers, the Challengers, the Roadrunners--just to name a few. The Dart was typically smaller in comparison to the large, gas-guzzling engine "tanks" of its day. It had a smaller engine, and might have offered greater fuel mileage (just a speculation).
The Dodge Dart's sexy, little Mopar ass!
And that's what seems to be built into the  modern-day, 21st century Dart. It's a resurrected (originally running from the early-1960s to mid-1970s) compact, fuel-efficient car that offers cuteness and sportiness, topped-off with that sexy, little Mopar ass. But don't let the compactness suggest that it's a one-man tight squeeze ride. Assuming you are interested in the four-door model; the Dodge Dart is roomy enough on the inside to be a family car with every luxury one would expect from a modern-day car.
Don't believe me?
I challenge you to visit your local Dodge dealer and test drive the Dart. From the very moment that I sat in the driver's seat I exclaimed, "Oh, hell yeah!" I could not believe what I was looking at! Let me explain that for a number of years I have been driving fuel-efficient compact cars. This is because I typically commute an hour each way and need cars that are good on gas. And the insides have always matched what they were: cheap, little compact cars with buzzy, fuel-efficient engines that offer very little room for passengers. They might have been the sort of cars that your teenager daughter would drive.
The Dart, on the other hand, feels like a man's car! And yes, I drove plenty of those in younger years. As I said before, the Dart is roomy and spacious enough to comfortably fit the wife and kids it its comfort leather-trimmed cushion seats.  The interior styling and decor is rich in elegance and class. It's sturdy and rugged. In short, you do not feel like you are sitting in a cheap, little car.
The Darts are six speed. And if you happen to test drive one of the automatic models, notice how smooth the acceleration is. It isn't choppy and harsh.
Modern-day cars come with electronics that link with your Android or iPhone device via Bluetooth. Rest assured, the Dart includes this. You can operate your phone hand's free while driving--talking on the phone, texting, checking emails and even playing streaming audio such as Pandora. Oh, do check out the sound system. Yeah, you can rock out while cruising.
Okay; so you found a nice, compact, fuel-efficient car that is cute and sporty on the outside with family roominess and elegance on the inside. But how does it feel to drive a fuel-efficient car? A little boring? If you're sick of chugging your way up to cruising speed from the green light, well Dodge has a solution. You can unlock a little power from your Dart by slipping into auto-stick mode. Many vehicles offer this, today. This feature converts your automatic transmission into "clutchless" manual. Now you can play with the transmission while driving and optimize engine power as needed. Rather than turn at a light and then slowly accelerate from auto-transmission-dictated fourth gear, you can slip that bitch into second gear and take off once you hit the accelerator. And don't worry about harming your transmission. Dodge integrated the feature for this very reason. And for extra protection, auto stick is electronically controlled and monitored. If it detects an aggressive shift that might cause damage, the shift is rejected.
I've read reviews on the Dodge Dart. One of the most common complaints of the car is its lack of horse power--a complaint that confuses me because the Dart is a fuel-efficient car, not a race car. No, you won't win drag races in the Dodge Dart. Oh, but there are the GT turbo charged models. If you
Dodge Challenger Hellcat
need more horse power, you might want to consider one of these. But if you are really serious about racing and showing off engine power, then you might want to look into the Dodge Hellcat! With a 707 horsepower supercharged HEMI® V8 engine, it's the fastest car ever released in the United States. It includes two keys for modes of operation--standard and racing. Under racing mode, it burns 1.5 gallons of gas per minute. I'm pretty sure the biggest complaint for this car is it's lack of fuel efficiency. But that's the sort of car to look for if wishing for engine power and winning races, not a Dart.
But seriously; if you are looking for a nice, compact, cute and sporty car that feels good to drive; I highly recommend the Dodge Dart. I hope to see more of these out on the road.
I certainly wouldn't drive my little Dodge Dart like the fantasy car in today's featured writing! Written a few years ago, I unpublished it because it needs a little work. But after reading it this morning, I think it's a good story and gets the point across.
Have a good weekend. I guess we could call this Mopar Friday!
Joe raced into his coworker's subdivision on a fine, Monday morning in a brand, new 2013 Dodge Roadrunner that nearly glowed with retro limey-green paint—straight out of the 1970s, but very much modern. If you love the resurrection of the classic Charger and Challenger, then you'd be amazed with the modern-day spin on the Roadrunner! With an engine large enough to fit inside of a commercial jet, and yielding 792 horse power; the mammoth chunk of machinery is crammed under the hood and distributed throughout the car. In fact, the engine is so large that an impressive chunk of the engine is exposed through the hood. The all new model offers a high performance racing transmission with selectable shifter for both automatic and manual operation. The rear axle offers Positraction to distribute appropriate power when taking off and minimizing the "fishtail" effect. And don't worry! Tires can still dig into the asphalt during taking off and peel some thirty feet of rubber—a perfectly straight patch thanks to Positraction! The racing suspension allows hair-pin turns onto the exit and entrance ramps. I mean this car has every bit of high performance exhilaration. And it's made just for the sort of driver like Joe!
So excited with his new car and eager to brag, he didn't bother to pull into the driveway and honk the noteworthy Roadrunner horn. (Yes, the 2013 Dodge Roadrunner horn sounds just like the “beep-beep” of your favorite Looney Tunes character, the Roadrunner.) Rather than being sensible and conventional, Joe took advantage of the fact that his coworker, John, lived on a cul-de-sac. He disabled the rear-wheel Positraction on the high-tech dashboard to use that 792 horsepower for producing phenomenal donuts on the road. The mammoth engine roared and accelerated while Joe cut the steering wheel to a hard left. All of the residents in that subdivision could feel the glass on the windows of their homes rattle at the sounds of the aggressive machine. The horsepower was so overwhelming that it spun the screaming tires on the asphalt and began to burn rubber.
Round and round, Joe made complete donut circles; all the while a dense ring of smoke enveloped the car. Clouds of it poured into the windows of people's houses. It was the greatest thing Joe had ever done! And he laughed while executing the donuts.  How he loved his new Roadrunner!
Uh-oh! Joe could no longer see outside the ring of smoke. It was time stop, allow the air to clear of burning rubber and maybe pull into his coworker's driveway.  But after about thirty seconds of waiting for the smoke to clear, Joe realized it wasn't necessary to pull into his coworker's drive. John stood some feet in front of the car, holding his laptop bag and lunch, and wearing an irate face. He immediately opened the passenger door and stepped in. "Hey man, what the hell is wrong with you? You can't pull into the subdivision and do crap like that! And you filled my kitchen up with smoke. My wife is not happy.  You better get out of here before one of the neighbors calls the cops.”
"Bah! Don't worry about it!" answered Joe. "It's cool! This is the new 2013 Dodge Road Runner." And with that he re-engaged the high-performance rear-wheel Positraction; slipped the transmission into manual operation mode and took off like a jet... down a residential street!
All John could do was sit in the passenger seat with head held back from take-off force and flesh of face pulling towards the seat. This was no ordinary car! This was some sort of dragster. Or maybe it was jet airplane. It would be easy to conclude this based on the way the car would sometimes soar into the air when going over bumps or dips on the road.
And just how fast was Joe going in his new Roadrunner down a residential street? He was already at 90 MPH and approaching 100!
"Hey man, slow the hell down!" ordered John. “What's wrong with you? This is a residential street."
"What? You don't like this?" It was no problem for Joe. He simply downshifted from fourth to second gear and used the gear’s resistance to assist in breaking. The engine whined at the mercy of a madman on the road and slowed down to a reasonable speed.
But this was no fun for Joe. A Roadrunner was never meant to be driven like this. "I think we're going to take a little shortcut to work today."
"What? Why? We've got plenty of time."
At 30 MPH, Joe blew past the stop sign, made a hairpin turn and accelerated down a dead-end street. And just like before, he approached speeds of 90 MPH.
"Slow down!" ordered John. "Where are you going? This is a dead-end road!"
"Not beyond that fence." answered Joe as he slipped the transmission into lower gear and further accelerated beyond 100 MPH.
Was Joe out of his mind? Clearly anyone could see that the vehicle rapidly approached a fence. It barricaded motorists from accessing the shared utility and commercial driveway of some vast, wide-open industrial area. Occasionally shipping trucks or utility vehicles would use this driveway. But most often it was void of anyone. It could easily be a private highway just for a man like Joe, who now owned a Dodge Roadrunner.
John screamed in horror at the sight of the fence.
Joe laughed maniacally while smashing through with the front of his car, just the way test drivers did on ridiculously, over-exaggerated car commercials. At such a high speed the Roadrunner crossed the private driveway on the other side of the fence and into some rear parking lot of a shipping company. It was no problem for Joe. He simply downshifted into second gear and watched the RPM gauge nearly redline while the engine whined and screamed at the crazy driver.
At about 30MPH, Joe made a 180 and took off back for the driveway where he made a sharp right and then accelerated to frightening speeds.
By now John was in complete shock and speechless. If he actually arrived to work this morning, alive, it would be nothing short of a miracle. Something happened to his coworker, Joe. That car apparently did it to him. And if John did make it work this morning, it would certainly be best to no longer carpool with Joe.
This was Joe's private highway where the only rule was to enjoy that Roadrunner to the fullest. In such a place, since when is it necessary to remain on the main road of travel? If a parking lot has stretches of puddles seen from the distance, shouldn’t Joe be able to make a detour and race for the puddles?
Now in the parking lot and heading towards the puddles at 80 MPH, the high-performance suspension was tested by cutting the steering wheel left to right. The car weaved and made small skids while following the direction of the crazy driver. Not much distance away from the large puddle, Joe disengaged Positraction and accelerated. Finally he plowed through about a three inches deep of water and cut the steering wheel to a hard left. The Roadrunner skimmed sideways and threw a tidal wave of water many feet ahead. In that moment, time nearly slowed down so that the reflection of the beautiful car and its retro, limey-green paint glistened through the rippley puddle. Along with this, spots of morning sunlight sparkled in the splashed water. It would have been perfect for a car commercial!
Once no longer skimming across the foot-deep puddle, Joe shifted back into first gear and whipped around back towards a shipping dock where bright, yellow, cement guider posts divided about a dozen docks. It was time to further test the handling of the Roadrunner.
"Left... right... left... right... With the greatest of ease Joe guided the car so that it slithered and hugged between each cement post. And he did it so well at 60 MPH. The last post required some tricky maneuvering as the car was very close to a cement barricade to separate one parking lot from the other.
"Cop-stop!" This is what Joe yelled as he engaged the emergency brake and cut a hard left. The car screeched and seemed to automatically make a 180 degree turn. With the rear of the vehicle now facing the cement wall that was only some ten feet away, Joe slammed the shifter into second gear and took off. In such a battle of directional force, the tires ripped into the concrete and spun for a second before the Roadrunner finally rocketed away from the wall. It was a close call!
"Hey man! You're almost killed us back there!" yelled John.
"Nah, don't worry about it!" answered Joe. "This transmission is heavy duty and high performance. Check this out!" Now back to 60 MPH, Joe slammed the shifter into reverse and yelled out, "Retro rockets!" The Roadrunner abruptly stopped and tires reverse-spun and squealed into the parking lot until the car began to travel in reverse. At 60MPH, Joe shifted out of reverse and slammed back into first. The tires spun the opposite direction and screeched into the asphalt until traveling forward.
He did it again... and again... back and forth, just to demonstrate the neat, little trick that he discovered.
Time was running out. Joe needed to get his coworker and himself to work. With that he darted back for the main driveway and zipped off like a rocket.
Joe announced as-if some airline radio controller, "Delta 2, 6, niner; you're clear and ready for take-off." At each gear he nearly redlined the RPM gauge before shifting into the next one. Such frightening speeds were achieved down that strip of driveway. It was time for the grand finale; the stunt that would prove the awesomeness of all the all new 2013 Dodge Roadrunner.
John's face turned pale in anticipation of what was about to happen. He had some idea, but hoped that Joe wouldn't be so stupid. You see, the private industrial driveway was separated from the main road by a fence and large hill. And it just so happened that John and Joe's place of work was in the direction of travel on the other side of the fence. If Joe did things correctly, he might be able to gain enough speed to thud over the curb of the driveway where it ended to present a small hill of grass with fence on the other side and main road where motorists traveled. If the driveway actually reached this road instead of ending, it would intersect and connect with the parking lot of their place of work.
Can the reader get the idea? It would be necessary for the Roadrunner to be launched over the curb and hill to be airborne for some seconds and hopefully fly over the main road to land in the parking lot. This is apparently why Joe reached speeds of over 100 MPH.  Only in some Dukes of Hazard fantasy were such maneuvers possible.
All John could do was close his eyes in that final second and say his prayers. He felt the front of the car violently thud over the curb and lift up in the air. The vehicle was now airborne and the engine roared its way over the small hill and fence.
As Joe screamed out "Yeeee... whoooooo!" and tooted his Roadrunner horn, "Beep... beep!" John opened his eyes and looked down below. The main road and traveling vehicles were only a few feet underneath. And just in the nick of time, the front tires of the Roadrunner touched the parking lot of John and Joe's place of work.
Coworkers walking up to the building stopped in awe and watched as some vehicle of assault appeared to have fallen out of the sky and landed on asphalt. The front end of the Roadrunner bent upon impact. The bottom of the car scraped against the asphalt and produced sparks for some distance. Finally it screeched and skimmed sideways until perfectly gliding into a parking spot.
Many people recognized their coworker, Joe, as he stepped out of the Roadrunner so cool and calm with lunch in hand. John carefully exited the vehicle and lay down on the parking lot in celebration of being alive.
But why should everyone have thought that Joe was such an ass? The car commercial clearly demonstrated that the Roadrunner could be driven that way.

Wednesday, July 8, 2015

"Soft-disconnecting" from Social Media--is it right for you, and how to do it.

Hello All:
A reader contacted me last night and asked, “Excuse me kind sir, can I contact my grandma in that ghost app? She died from a stroke and I miss her.”
To which I reassured this person that it is possible to communicate with those who have passed over into the next world with a spirit box.
This person had no trouble reaching me. All of my readers can reach me at any time; email, post a reply to one of the articles in this blog, or even send me a text message. (Yes, I have my cell phone number posted on the contact page). But if you try contacting me through Facebook or Twitter, you might have to wait several hours before hearing back from me. You see, I’ve taken the “social media challenge”. I have “soft disconnected” myself from social media. Don’t worry; I’m still there. But I’ve learned distance myself.
Is this something you’ve thought of doing? Are wondering if it’s possible to pull the plug on social media? If so, then maybe the below article is right for you.
Is “soft-disconnecting” from Social Media Right for You?
I recently asked myself a startling question. "What was life like without social media?"
Now before I go any further, let me tell you that I'm certainly old enough to remember life before social media—life before the Internet; even life before computers and handheld electronics! Yes, by some people's standards I'm certainly up there in age. But some of you might chime in and say that you remember the days of having only one telephone in the house without call waiting; one black and white TV in the house with only channels 2, 5, 7, 9 and a couple UHF stations; cars with only AM radios... The claims can go on. Yes technology has made significant jumps throughout the decades, and has certainly made our world a global neighborhood.
But back to social media; an Internet-driven platform that links millions of users, worldwide, to enable the sharing of messages, pictures, videos, music—you name it! Platforms such as Facebook, Twitter, Google+, and so many more can quickly be accessed on a notebook computer, tablet or smart phone. Free apps are typically offered for these devices which provide up-to-the-minute alerts whenever activity of interest takes place on a user's social media platform of choice. We are a society that remains in constant contact with family, friends, co-workers and business colleagues.
It sounds like a wonderful thing, doesn't it?—twenty first century technology at its finest. You can sit at the airport and share recent photos on Facebook that were taken throughout your vacation for family and friends to see. When you return to work on Monday, you can quickly sneak onto your smart phone and check to see if anyone else has commented on or "liked" your vacation photos.
Have you found yourself home, alone, on a Saturday afternoon for a couple of hours? Really, you are not alone? You can go onto your favorite social media platform and check out what all your family and friends have been sharing with everyone. You can comment, and even start conversations with people. And it goes beyond that! Communicating through social media can be considered "better" than a standard telephone call because one can maintain several conversations with several or more people at one time! How can you beat that?
So why would anyone want to take the social media challenge and unplug themselves from this wonderful world of electronic togetherness?
The simple answer: It's debatable; especially in a world where humans seek togetherness and acceptance. Social media is a sociological experience. It keeps us informed as to what all of our family and friends believe-in and value. It teaches us the sort of self-image that we need to uphold in order to maintain acceptance from loved ones while striving to achieve social supremacy. For every article or book that can be found that warns of the harm of social media, there are many others that encourage us to continue using it because of its many benefits.
If you ask me, there is only a small population of people who will ever make the decision to distance themselves from social media. These people are individuals who actually value quiet time and aloneness. They might be the sort of people who, on beautiful Saturday morning, opt to leave the TV and radio off; open the windows to hear peace and quiet. They do not appreciate having beliefs and values imposed on them. They do not enjoy having their brains bombarded and flooded with current events or social, political or religious propaganda.
And that's one of the main reasons why people are beginning to pull away from Facebook, Twitter and the likes. These platforms have become an avenue for distributing social, political and religious propaganda. You've seen them; emotion-provoking images with powerful words in the center that support a certain cause or belief. Sharing these, liking them or commenting on them can spark debates and arguments between family and friends. Perhaps even you have participated in this, only to discover the stress that it caused because you didn't believe in what the majority believes in. You feel sort of ashamed—not very good about yourself.
Again, it was a Sunday morning after examining a post I made on Facebook the previous day on a recent current event. People were unhappy with my opinions, which made me feel somewhat ashamed. I finally asked myself, "What was life like before social media?"
It was actually more of loaded question that I had presented myself with. What I really meant was, "Am I feeling good about participating in social media? Am I fooling myself with an imaginary world where I think people give me love and acceptance because of the things I post? Can I do without Facebook, Twitter and Google+?"
Perhaps you, the reader, have had a similar experience. You've spent a number of months or years on social media and have begun to question it. That might be why you found this article. You might be wondering if there are others who wonder the same. Are there people who pull the plug on social media?
Well I'm here to tell you that I've taken the "social media challenge". I've mostly disconnected myself from my favorite platforms and am beginning to understand that I was somewhat addicted. And if you're interested in how to do this, then I'm going to show you.
How to “soft-disconnect” from Social Media
Now here's the bad news: If you wish to unplug yourself or distance yourself from social media, I'm afraid it won't be 100% possible. Sure you can just delete your Facebook, Twitter, or Google+ account—whatever platform it is that you use. But this is analogous to someone in the 1980s who simply cancelled their telephone service. You see, we are a social media driven world in the 21st century. Aside from phone calls and text messaging, social media platforms are the way that family and friends stay in contact. So just like disconnecting your telephone in the 1980s; how will family and friends be able to interact with you?
Yeah, I hear you; back in the 1980s people who might have disconnected their telephones could have had family and friends come to the door or have letters sent to the mailbox. Likewise, if you delete your social media account, then family and friends can call or text you.
But let's get real! Seriously! No one cancelled their phone in the old days. It would have been an unwise thing to do. Aside from that, would that person have been trying to make a statement that he or she didn't want to be bothered by people? And the same holds true with social media. It isn't going away anytime soon. It's here to stay. More and more people will be jumping on board to stay in touch with one another. So whatever you do, do not delete your Facebook or Twitter! It looks bad—makes you look like you are anti-social or suddenly too good for everyone.
But you can still distance yourself from social media in a "soft-disconnect" sort of way. But it's going to take a little bit of effort and changing on your part.
Here's something to think about; and this goes mainly to people who are under thirty five—young adults and teens. For the rest of us, it’s going to remind us of what social media has turned us into. Did you know that you can go out to a restaurant, concert, movie, a social gathering—whatever—without being obligated to report this to your family and friends on Facebook? Why, you can spend a whole afternoon at some function, and not tell a soul or share photos of what it is you experienced! As far as everyone is concerned, you never went there. There is nothing wrong with this.
Try it! What if you and your significant other went to the beach or went to the woods for a Saturday afternoon and didn't tell anyone? The best part: you left your phones in the glove compartment of your car! It would then be just you and that other person, enjoying the moment together. No one else would be with you. And when the afternoon ended, you didn't tell anyone.
If someone asks, "Hey where were you today?"
Just answer that you and your significant other went to the beach or the forest preserve.
"Yeah? How was it?"
"Oh, it was nice..." And that's all you need to do. There is nothing wrong with enjoying some peace and quiet without including the whole world in your afternoon of alone time with another person.
"Leave my phone in my glove compartment? But what if someone is trying to get a hold of me?"—you might ask?"
Well if you anticipate an emergency, then you should certainly bring your phone with. But, as I will show you how to do some paragraphs below, you will want to make sure that your afternoon is free of any alerts or interruptions from social media.
Just a little food for thought: Did you know that, years ago, people would be gone for a number of hours without being aware that Aunt Sue suddenly discovered she was pregnant, or poor Uncle Bob lost his dog? Even still, these items of family news wouldn't filter through the network of people until some hours—or some days—later. And we all lived to tell about it! Imagine what life was like. We were able to focus on the "here and now" for many hours without being distracted.
Imagine a world without sharing your life on social media. You can purchase a car, purchase a new home, get a new job, or change your major in college without having to report these things to your network of family, friends, neighbors and coworkers. And you'll discover if ever doing this that you no longer have to defend your decisions and choices to those who might offer a little negative feedback or some stupid remark when commenting back. You can do this. You can keep your life private without consulting everyone else, and there is nothing wrong with it!
And this will be one of the biggest challenges that you will face when "soft disconnecting" yourself from social media. You will have sudden urges to take a photo of something interesting and post it to Facebook. You'll have a funny thought and will want to share this on your timeline for everyone. You'll want to gripe about something and post it for other people to read and maybe agree with you. You'll sit outside in the backyard in the evening and wish to casually pull out the phone and browse the timeline feed.
"STOP!" is what you will have to tell yourself. "There is no need to do this!"
The first step in "soft disconnecting" yourself from social media is not only to make the conscious decision to do it; but to make a conscious realization that life is going to be a little different... maybe even better once you give it a chance.
Are you able to do this? Are you able to take the next step? If so, then log into your Facebook, Twitter, Google+ or any platforms that you currently use on a PC. It is recommended that you use a PC for this step because you will need to access settings. Phone apps don't always allow settings to be accessed.
You might have to do a little research on how to do this; but find the sub-menu under settings which allows you to direct and enable notifications. Once upon a time when you signed up, you provided your cell phone number and maybe email address. Check to see if notifications are currently being pushed to your cell phone as a text message, or possibly to your email box. If so, uncheck these options. Make sure that no updates pertaining to new posts from friends or followers, likes or comments on your posts, direct messages or "pokes" will be sent to you while not logged in. Don't worry! You'll still be able to see these things at a designated time that you ultimately decide on (later step). For now, you are making sure that notifications and alerts will not interrupt your normal life.
Let's talk about the sort of notifications that you receive. At some point in your social media experience, you might have opted to select certain individuals to be notified of when he or she makes a post or comment. Go through that list, right now, and carefully evaluate as to whether or not they are really important. Now I know this might sound cold and callous. But really think about it. Is everyone on that notification list really that important to you? Couldn't you stand to eliminate a few of them?—like the ones who seem to post negative propaganda, or never have something nice to say? This is, after all, one of the reasons why you wish to distance yourself from social media, right? Uncheck the option to receive notifications from these people. Do this for everyone who you feel isn't all that important. Ultimately, you want everything set up so that next time you log into—say—Facebook, your notifications will be for people such as your spouse, siblings, children, parents, close friends—people who are really important to you in your life. And that's one of the things we learn upon distancing ourselves from social media; we learn that it's family and close friends who matter most. Of course you don't have anything against your past coworkers from a job that you had five years ago. But your family is a little more valuable, right?
Once you have disabled push notifications from all of your social media platforms and cleaned up your list(s) of what you get notified of, you next want to turn your attention towards mobile apps. Any social media apps that you downloaded to your iPhone or Android should be set so that you no longer receive notifications. You might need to go into the apps manager menu and uncheck, "receive notifications". You'll be warned that you will no longer receive important notifications if un-checking this. But that's what you want! You no longer want Facebook, Twitter or Google+ calling you! And "important" is such a relative word, isn't it?
After about fifteen or twenty minutes of work—maybe a half hour for those who aren't so technology savvy, you will finally be free from any distractions. Social media will no longer call you.
Feels good, doesn't it...?
My, isn't it quiet…?
And whatever you do, do not log into these platforms to check to see what is going on. That defeats the purpose!
Give it a few hours, and you will begin to exhibit symptoms of withdrawal. You'll feel agitated that you cannot check things for any new updates. You might even feel a bit sad; maybe have some regrets for turning things off. Was this the right choice? Should you abandon this decision to "soft-disconnect" from social media?
"STOP!" is what you need to tell yourself. Call to mind all the reasons why you chose to do this. Remind yourself that life is going to change for the better. Then remind yourself that at a designated time each day, you will sit down and visit Facebook, Twitter, Google+, etc for a few minutes to get your updates.
It's stressful, isn't it? I've been there, and I know what you are going through. You feel fidgety, and wonder if someone is trying to share something important with you. But just remind yourself that all the important people in your life have your phone number and email address. These notifications are still active on your phone. If you get a text message, phone call or email; your phone will sound an alert.
Did you pull your phone out to go online? That's okay, as long as you have a legitimate reason. Maybe you wish to check the weather, look up some article, recipe, or directions on how to get to a certain place. Yes, there are many other reasons besides social media why people go online. But if you find yourself wandering aimlessly online or staring at the home screen of your phone, ask yourself, "What am I doing? What am I looking for? Is there any reason why I need to be online or browsing the apps on my home screen?" If the answer is, "no", then put your phone away.
It takes work and many gentle reminders. But through time, you get used to it.
Now about this designated time of day; that moment that you have been obsessively anticipating to finally log in and see what is happening with all your friends. It is strongly recommended that you do not choose morning as the time to this. You see; the mind is fresh and new in the morning; easily influenced and searching for information to be filled with. Checking social media at this time of day is like having a piece of chocolate cake for breakfast. What's more; you run the risk of seeing something that might affect you negatively. Is that how you want to start your day? You did, after all, make the choice to pull away from social media because you no longer appreciated its effect on you.
It's better to check social media in the evening. Sit down in the family room after dinner with your iPhone, and open up Facebook, Twitter, Google+, etc. Go to your notifications and see what your friends have been sharing. Check these things out, and be sure to "like", "star", "favor", or "plus" them. Maybe add a simple comment such as "Hey, that's cool." But keep the comment simple and positive.
Be careful, however, of what posts you might be checking out. If you see in your notifications that your friend shared a post from "I F—king Love Being an Atheist", and you are a Christian; you might want to pass that one up. You know it's going to affect you the wrong way!
Check to see if you have any direct messages, and be sure to reply to them. Check to see if someone poked you (if on Facebook) and be sure to poke them back.
All caught up with your notifications and added nice comments to what your friends had to say? If so, it's time to post what I call "neutral photos".
What are "neutral photos”?
Let's say it's summertime. Go online and find a few pictures of sailboats, or the beach—simple things that remind people of summer. Make sure there are no messages, motivational quotes, or phrases that could be considered propaganda in the photos. Then post these simple photos to your profile page. Try to avoid adding comments. I've found that people will actually "like", "star", or "favorite" these images, especially if they are of high-quality photography. And being that you choose neutral images, these types of photos will not result in negative remarks or spark debates among family members and friends. Your objective in doing this is to simply let people know that you are still there.
Go ahead, get creative! Every night, find three to five images that are seasonal, fun and festive. Once you are done doing this, close the window. Your visit to the world of social media should only take ten minutes at most. You are now done with social media for the day!
Sometimes you might find yourself starting to scroll through the newsfeed. Stop yourself from doing this! I know it's only natural and a force of habit; but this goes against "soft-disconnecting" yourself from social media.
The symptoms of social media withdrawal go away in a few days. It’s replaced with a feeling that is likened to a heavy weight that’s been lifted off the chest. In less than a week, I began to realize that my social media experience was pretty much self-fed. I got what I put into it. Much of it took place in my own head. And if I didn’t know any better, I’d say that people don’t seem to miss me since I’ve taken the “social media challenge”. Life has gone on in the social media world without me. You might discover this as well.

My “social media challenge” goal is to reach one year of being “soft-disconnected’. Already I can see that it is changing my life. I encourage you to do the same.