raptorphile-induced weather
could muffles Smeags screams
1968 Pontiac Firebird:
I know what you're thinking: "What the hell do I care about this, Stevester?" This is not a post about this fine automobile, or the 1973 Buick Riviera, but about Smeagol. Bear with me as I take you even further into the thong that surrounds those who enter.... the Raptor Zone.
Smeagol claims he owns one of the above car. The story goes like this: Apparently while Smeagol was living in Tarkio, which is right outside of Maryville, Missouri, he said he was raptoring along a dirt road in the middle of the country, no word on what he was doing out there, so I will speculate he was catching fish by dipping his naked asscheekc into the stream, laying a pathetic-sounding but horrible smelling poot that caused the fish to instantaneously die and lose their immortal souls, which he collected in his last tooth like a raptor Sheng Tsung.
Anyway, he was raptoring along a dirt road, and he says a farmer asked him to clean the bird crap out of his barn. Smeagol, looking like a raptor himself, was well suited to this job, as since he looked like one of them the other chickens didn't raise a fuss as he mopped dookies off of everything with his thong.
When he finished, he went to the farmer's house, with plenty of shit smeared all over his own bird chest, though inexplicably it was not his own (I am making some of this up, if you didn't know) and asked for payment. Apparently, the farmer informed him that while he did not have any money, Smeagol could have his 1968 Pontiac Firebird convertible, which he was using as a chicken coop, nay it was one of the things Smeagol cleaned out.
I have never seen said automobile. Smeagol talks about going up to get it all the time, though he does not have a title, bill of sale or piece of toilet paper with the farmer's name. He brings this up whenever someone speaks of having a nice car, as if he is effectively upping the ante.
1973 Buick Riviera
This is a 1973 Buick Riviera. It is absolutely beautiful. I almost cry just looking at it, and it is very hard to look upon such beauty and not instantly start masturbating furiously.
My great uncle owned one of these. It had 31000 miles on it. It had a 455 in it, and was in great condition, no rust whatsoever. He had lovingly taken it apart and oiled the bolts and shit, and the doors were under heavy plastic and hanging, along with the rest of the car, in the basement of his home on 5401 Woodland. How does this have anything to do with Smeagol?
In 1999, my uncle died of a stroke or old age or something, not too long after my great aunt died in the front bedroom in the house. Smeagol was electric with excitement and anticipation, as he had planned to move in and take over the house as soon as their dead bodies were removed from the premises. "It's a free house, niggie!" He would giggle, his thong jiggling like a Santa's belly.
So we moved in, not a week after my dead great uncle and great aunt were removed from the home, and there started the Reign of the Raptor.
Monday: part II of this story, or I will never finish it like I never finish any stories I start because that raptor gives me too many reasons to post his antics.
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