Roadside Barter

Put your funniest internet jokes + anything that pokes fun at Bubbas.

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Roadside Barter

Postby OldUsedParts » Wed Mar 20, 2019 11:04 am

One time there was a Preacher out riding his bicycle thru a neighborhood that he had not ridden thru before. He saw a young man sitting on the sidewalk with a lawnmower that had a for sale sign on it. He stopped and asked the boy if he'd be interested in trading the lawnmower for the bicycle he was riding. The young boy said "yes but it's out of gas so you'll have to push it home and fill it up to start it". The Preacher agreed and soon went walking towards his house pushing the lawnmower.

The next morning the Preacher was standing in front of the boy's house with the lawnmower. When the young boy came outside the Preacher said "This lawnmower is a piece of junk and I can't get it started !" The young boy replied "Have you tried cussing at it ?" The Preacher replied "Son, I am a man of God and profanity does not ever cross my lips. Matter of fact I've even forgotten how to cuss !" The young boy smiled and said "Well, Preacher, I'll bet if you yank on that starting cord a few dozen more times, then it will all come back to you !" :shock: :roll: :laughing7:
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Re: Roadside Barter

Postby Boots » Wed Mar 20, 2019 12:36 pm

LOL, had to laugh at this, with a particular reason behind it.

Back in the '60's when I were a tad, my Dad went out and bought a Toro push mower. Now this was not necessarily a revelation in and of itself, but this particular model had a Tecumseh engine in it instead of a Briggs and Stratton. I don't know who designed the carburetor for the thing, but he must have been related to the Marquis de Sade. Starting that thing would have tested the patience of Job himself, and dear old Dad had zero patience, maybe even less than zero patience if such a thing were possible. Many were the instances of a hot humid summer day when it just wasn't gonna happen, with legendary bouts of top of the lungs swearing, exclamations, and questioning of the movement of the planets and stars themselves. We lived up on a small hill in Colleyville at the time; most of the neighbors within a quarter mile earshot had long become aware of the mad man on the hilltop and steered clear; most made a habit of hiding indoors until after supper, when they could slip out unnoticed under the cover of darkness. I still have trouble with my hearing because of it.

One particular spring day, Dad rolled out the Toro for the first mowing of the spring. Of course the wet, plump spring grass was already 8 or 9 inches high due to procrastination. To my shock, the Tecumseh kicked off on the first yank on the string, and off Dad went, happy in the delusion that everything would be just fine. First couple of passes amongst the shorter sections, everything was great; the blade was sharp, the Tecumseh was warmed up, the temperature was in the 70's, and all was right with the world.

Then Dad hit the tall stuff.

Of course, first bite into the tall grass, the Toro bogs down and the Tecumseh lugs down, sputters loudly, and then with an audible gasp, gave up the ghost. Mild curses erupt, involved dogs and parentage. Dad tilts the mower up and I plant all 50 or 60 pounds of my impressive bulk on the push handle to hold it down, and he clears all the balled up grass from the blade. Then he flops it back down, applies the choke, and proceeds to yank the string. Nothing happens of course. Choke off (because it would flood at the drop of a hat), and he yanks again. Nothing happens. This evolves into about a 20 minute battle of wills, choking and unchoking and yanking and unyanking and throttle manipulation and exhortation, all the while against the background of a concerto of cursing that filled the neighborhood like a foul fog, creeping over, under, and around every living and unliving thing within a quarter mile. Dogs stopped barking, birds stopped singing, worms dug their way deeper into the ground to try and escape it. The neighbor's black '56 Chevy truck a few houses away began to turn a slight shade of chartreuse over black; I am convinced it was blushing.

After about 20 minutes, the effects of fatigue set in, and Dad paused briefly to draw breath. Undaunted and unbowed, Dad paused for 30 seconds to breath, like an undercard fighter riding the stool in the corner, beaten and bloodied but unbroken, waiting to spring forth on the bell. He looks at me. "Son....go get the can of ether". By this I knew things had gone from moderate toleration to a truly dark place. Death was in the air.

Now, there was a urban legend belief at the time that if yer balky internal combustion device was sputtering and you sprayed liquid ether into the carburetor, this would somehow do something beneficial (and likely dangerous) to the mixture of fuel flowing into the intake, and would help yer Old Wheezer pop off and get started. I don't know how this myth got started, to this day I attribute it to a Cold War plot planted by Kruschev in America during his visit to see Eisenhower to tout Soviet tractor production. "Da, ef dey don't start Ike, jest shoot some of dat ether into der carburetor, es how we kept our tanks roonning in de frigid cold outside Stalingrad." Simply put, it had to be a Commie plot.

So dutiful tad that I was, off to the garage I go and got the spray can of ether or whatever the stuff was, and returned to the scene of the impending massacre.

So the old man moves to the back of the Toro, grabs the string handle, and braces himself on the throttle, legs planted, chin thrust out, a look of grim furor and determination written upon his face. "Alright son, when I yank on the string, you spray that ether into the carburetor, and we'll get this motherduckingnogoodbackdooringfeeblemindedsonofabiscuiteater started! Ready??"

"Dad...what's a carburetor?"

"Oh, gobbledegookspacemonkeyselfrisingflour!!!" He points at a black spot on the mower. "Just squirt it in that hole!"

"Ok Dad." I squat next to the indolent machine, take my best Daisy BB gun aim at the hole, and aim my weapon into the darkness of the mystery hole. The air was hot and thick, the tension thick as 3 day gravy. I felt the sweat seep down into my eyes, the salt burning me. This was serious stuff.

Suddenly, with a hop in the air like a panther, Dad yanked the string with all the might a 40-odd year old with no physical exercise in 20 years could manage, and that blasted Tecumseh actually popped, came to 2 or 3 seconds of wheezing life, and then began to fade.

'NNNNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" yelled the old man.

Like Alan Ladd in Shane, I cocked and fired in the split of a whiskered second, delivering a thick cloud of vaporous ether right into the hole. My speed was so fast, I could taken out both Jack Palance and the bartender with one shot. Blazing fast, and right on target.

And then a funny thing happened. I have heard of men in the strain of battle, in the heat of sporting competition, in a moment of desperation all say the same thing. Somehow in these situations, time seems to slow to a crawl even though in reality, its in the blink of an eye. A tiny yellow spark appeared in the hole, and then it began to grow. It grew more; yellow and red and boiling it was, growing, pulsing, expanding. I have later seen films of such things like the ignition of the Saturn rocket, and now understand it for what it was. An uncontained explosion. What could have happened???

The Old man had pointed me not at the carburetor. The Old Man had pointed me at the exhaust hole for the muffler. The red hot muffler.

A cloud of flame burst forth, right before my eyes, with a sickening metallic gasping sound and then I had the distinct feeling of a shock wave and heat. It only lasted a second, but it knocked me back a couple of feet, squarely on my butt. Either due to shock or some instinctive presence of mind, I had had the good fortune of letting go of the spray button of the ether can. Instantly starved of its cloud of flammable food, the fire blinked out. I sat there, staring at the mower, too scared to move.

And then the miracle happened, as if in response to the biblical burning bush of flame that had briefly burst forth; that gobsmackingnogoodtoadsucking Tecumseh fired off, and sang a note of true happiness at max power, its designer probably smiling down from heaven in wonder and going, "wow, the thing can really work after all".

This lasted for all of three seconds. Then, ever true to its nature, the Tecumseh did what it always did best. If folded like a cheap card table, gasping its last once more.

My Dad looked over at me. No, it was not my father; rather it was the face of demon unleased from the bowels of Hades, a face of fury that would have made Bruce Lee run and Chuck Norris soil himself.

"GO. INTO. THE. HOUSE. SON....AND DON'T COME BACK OUT."

I did not need a second prompting. I ran into the house and hid under the bed. I was convinced I was going to die. I wondered what it would be like. Where there other children in Heaven. Would we get be able to have Bosco and milk for dessert?

For about an hour, I heard yelling going on outside, the windows rattled. I heard later that one of the neighbors moved out the next day. Then, after a brief especially earsplitting crescendo, the yelling stopped. All was quiet. In time, the birds started singing again. I dared venture out from under the bed, crept to the kitchen window, and looked out, then walked out on the back porch.

There, in the middle of the yard surrounded by a 5 foot diameter circle of scorched earth, sat the Toro, burned to a crisp like a blackened sweet potato. A sledgehammer lay nearby; there appeared to be visible indentations over the body of the device. I note simply for the record that the muffler and ether can lay not far way, smashed flat as IHOP pancakes on $1.99 breakfast day. The dull haze of the remnants of a blackened plume hung in the hot, sticky air over the yard. The smell was acrid, like a creosote plant. I realized what had happened. The Old Man had beaten the Tecumseh to a pulp, then poured gasoline over it and had given it a Viking funeral.

I went back into the house and pondered what to do. Was age 8 too young to join the Marines?

About 2 hours later, the truck pulled into the drive, and I dove back under the bed. More noises, but no cursing, not even a single solitary "consignyoutohades". And suddenly, there was a single pop and an ear-splitting roar, the sound of an engine tuned, tested, and true. I crept to the window. Another miracle! The Toro was gone, never to be seen again, all traces of its existence (and that of the ether can) all vanished from the face of the earth. And instead, moving with power and grace and reliability and yes, even dignity, was the Old Man and his new Snapper with the Briggs and Stratton engine. A grim smile creased his face; clear-eyed and intent with a sense of mastery over his domain, the yard was mowed, crisply, as if some angel had descended with a pair of scissors and loving turned the unruly thatch into a golf green.

After the Great Toro Incident, life changed in our family. The Old Man grew more and more mellow; my mother started going back to the grocery store after 9AM, unfearful of encountering a disapproving neighbor, and I decided I would try and finish grammar school before departing for the Marines. And the Snapper? Ran like a champ for going on 20 years, with the Old Man seemingly devoted to its care like no other motor device we ever owned. We moved to a 60 acre farm, Dad got a big John Deere tractor, and the Snapper sat largely idle, only venturing out on occassional Sundays in the crisp fall to put a "really nice little finish" on the yard. Thing never did die or falter; I recall Dad eventually gave it to some neighbor kid who used it for his high school mowing business. One day, I am sure it did finally go to up to its Great Designer in the Sky, and is likely mowing Fiddler's Green even as we speak. I hope it is having fun.

The Toro, on the other hand, I hope is having a whoopdoopingawfulfargdarging time in Hades, where it belongs.
Last edited by Boots on Thu Mar 21, 2019 12:34 am, edited 1 time in total.
BE WELL, BUT NOT DONE
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Bobby: "No."
Hank: "Well, there's really no wrong way to do it."
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Re: Roadside Barter

Postby Rambo » Wed Mar 20, 2019 9:29 pm

:cheers:
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Re: Roadside Barter

Postby castironchris » Fri Mar 22, 2019 6:40 am

Beautiful story!!!!
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