Ah, it's summertime
fat people in spandex? Yum!
taste moist back pussy
Alright, so as I've said in earlier posts, my dad was almost continually indebted to some crack dealer or another (I say almost, because usually when he got taxes back he had enough to pay his bills off and there was about a week of bliss in which he had a few extra dollars until the call of the pipe pulled him back), and this presented some unique problems. In order to not get slapped around by whatever dealer felt like it, he had to usually surrender his car for weeks at a time, which was not conducive to his ability (or inability, as it were) to hold down steady employment. He devised a crafty plan, though , one that in his crack riddled mind would be foolproof: buy such crappy cars that his dealers wouldn't be caught dead in them (although this actually ended up happening in one car, but that's another post) , thus ensuring he would always have at least one car.
The first car in this plan was a 1975 Plymouth Duster. This was actually a very cool looking car, or would have been if it had all the same color, or had had the original 318 in it, or had had semi regular maintenance on it. None of this was the case, however. The car was 3 different colors. I swear there was a dying v6 in it, it never got going very fast, and there was a delicious billow of black smoke out of the back of the car all the time. Dad was in love with this car.
Soon thereafter, My dad and Janet came home somewhat shaken up. I say "somewhat", because when you smoke crack your eyes get all huge and you start acting like a monkey forcefed coffee for 18 hours, and with this being their normal behavior, I cannot say what they would have been like if they had been freaking out.
I asked what had happened, and Dad informed me that he had been driving, and checking out a little baggie of "some stuff I bought from an associate" (I mean really, I know it's crack... you know it's crack... he knows it's crack... 'some stuff'?) WHILE DRIVING up a busy road, and had plowed the car into the side of a Metro that was crossing the street. I stood there, shocked, then realized that he was still clutching the "baggie of stuff" in his hand like it was King Midas' gold. He then seemed to realize that he had unsmoked crack in his hand and ran upstairs to remedy that issue, but it's still mind boggling. Nothing until I asked him if he ever took a shot in the mouth for some crack and he responded "I've done a lot of things I'm not proud of, son" without answering surprised and shocked me as much as the fact that he had plowed into a bus, and the crack had made him superhuman enough to not only survive (he never wore a seatbelt) but have the presence of mind to grab his crack and run away.