Why am I so fat?
situps should cancel out lunch
though gut still jiggles
So there we were, Smeagol once again profiting off of the misery of others (I think the greatest part was that he didn't bother going to the funeral as he was too busy raptoring his belongings into the house), and I felt horrible taking from this sweet old man. I took the room upstairs, it was a long, narrow stairwell that led to a 10 x 20 room that had a closet that opened directly into the attic. The reason I did not take any of the other 2 bedrooms is twofold:
1) Someone died in each of those rooms, and I could never get over that.
2) I did not want to be in close proximity to Smeagol or Mystery or have to smell their funk.
So I was upstairs, cleaning out the attic, looking with sad remembrance upon stuff my uncle had left behind: Wrestling Insider, 1979 edition, with Hulk Hogan, , a Louis L'Anour novel, Split Open Beaver, Tranny Delight... wait WTF?!
I paused, not wanting to see but needing to nevertheless. I tried the Beaver magazine first, since I was assured of at least seeing females. This was disgusting. The twats in here were nasty looking enough (think "seedy titty bar in the desert somewhere with meth-addicted 40 year old crack whore who has a trachea pipe" and you nailed the photos), but there were thick late 70s porn-looking tufts of pube hair that made those vags, not known for being something you wanna stare at too much in the first place, look even less appealing. It looked like they took a picture of an ear in an afro and called it a vag. Not for me... not for me. Plus the pages were stuck together, and that was also less than appealing, since I had to lick each page in order to turn it. (I kid)
I opened the tranny mag, not because I wanna see that nasty shit but because I have to see that nasty shit, it's like Greyskull's leather miniskirt or Enticement: You hate yourself the entire time you are looking, but you cannot turn your eyes away... It was also nasty, the chicks had these nasty fake looking boobs, 5 o'clock shadows and tattoos on their forearms. How could you not know that was a dude?
Anyway, this post is not about my uncle's long lost porn collection (I threw them away, and none of them, including the wrestling mag, made it to the trashcan), it's about the 1973 Buick Riviera.
So we had this pristine, absolutely beautiful piece of machinery in the basement. I know what you're thinking: "Well did you restore it to it's original brilliance and enter it in a car show, win millions of dollars and become successful business men?"
No.
I come home about 3 weeks after we verified that the entire car was in fact all there, intent with a Hayne's auto manual, a 4.88 walmart tool set (the best 5 dollars could buy!), a raw fish to keep Smeagol occupied and my assless chaps on. I went down to the garage, noticing the door was open, and also happened to notice the huge 1973 boattail Buick Riviera was gone.
I stood there, shocked, for about 5 minutes, my mouth agape, sphincter hanging loose, and Smeagol pulls up in his car. He hops out and raptor walks into the house, with a bag from Taco Bell and another from an R/C Hobby shop in his claws, Mystery in tow strangling the kitten she had taken along. Hmmm.... how had he gotten the money for those?
I head in and ask Smeagol nicely where he had attained the funds for said R/C auto parts and taco bell he had already ensconced in a mini fridge he kept in his room when he did not want to share with me.
"Oh niggie I sold that car in the basement, I got 200 dollars for it too! I bought this sweet 50 watt gasoline engine for my remote control car and also some Taco Bell!" He gushed like a real asshole.
My brother, Smeagol, sold a 193 Buick Riviera for 200 dollars in order to buy a tiny gas/ electric engine for his remote control car and some taco bell that ended up rotting as he and Mystery forgot about it and I had no access to it for almost 2 months. Thus started the long decline of 5401 Woodland into the abyss that is Smeagol's failure.
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