BLAMP!

An endless string of crotch attacks. Why do I find this website so compelling?

A short story of around 1600 words.

Overtaken

Jim made sure to put his signal on a good eighth of a mile ahead of time, and coasted to a stop in front of his house. He got out of the car and took a step back to give it another look. She sure is a beaut, Jim told himself again. Yes indeed, I picked a good one. It hadn't been a long search at the dealership. Jim had stridden inside, his suit freshly starched and creased, his shoes squeaking across the linoleum, his brand new gold card practically glowing in his billfold. As soon as he saw it, he knew. "That one," he had declared, pointing to the blue convertible on the dais. "I'd like to buy that one." When he got in, the seat was already positioned perfectly.

"Honey!" Jim called. "I've got the car - shall we go for a drive?"

"What, now? But dear, I'm not properly dressed, and the Joneses are coming over for appetizers in an hour--"

"It'll only be a few minutes, Martha," Jim said, "just a spin around the block, to break her in. You and me, together, my love, in our brand new car." He jingled the keys.

"Well, I suppose it would be all right," she said. "Let me just powder my nose."

Out on the sidewalk, Martha swooned. "Oh, she's lovely! And my favorite color blue! Oh, she is beautiful!"

"A junker compared to you," Jim replied. Martha squealed in delight, flinging her arms around his neck and kissing him on the cheek. Turning again to the car, she asked, "What's her name?"

"What do you mean?" Jim asked.

"Well, cars have to have names, don't they? Certainly cars this lovely must have, deserve, a name!"

"I don't know," said Jim.

"Oh, can we call her Betsy? Betsy is just perfect, just perfect for her! Please, Jim, let it be Betsy!"

"All right," Jim smiled, "Betsy it is. Our car, Betsy."

"Betsy," Martha repeated softly. "Oh, Jim, can we get in now?" Jim opened the door for her, making sure her dress did not get caught in the door as he closed it, and sauntered around the hood to the driver's side. Martha was running her fingers over the smooth dashboard and instruments. "So perfect," she murmured. When Jim started the engine, a little gasp of delight escaped from her lips. He, too, was pleased to feel the car tremble in anticipation, and he trembled with it. Slowly he pulled away from the curb. The ride was smooth, almost effortless. They cruised around the block in silence, Betsy humming beneath them. As they arrived back at the space in front of their house, Martha spoke. "I don't suppose we could... well, the Joneses won't arrive for another 50 minutes, and I've already made the finger sandwiches, and it seems such a shame to turn Betsy off so soon after she's started up, and State Road 29 is so close. Couldn't we just... well..."

Jim was surprised, but, although it would have been uncouth to admit, he too was not yet ready to put the car down for the night. "Yes, dear, let's go," he said.

They turned onto the state road, behind a brown station wagon. For a minute they drove along, again in silence. Suddenly, Martha turned to Jim.

"Oh, overtake him, Jim," she cooed. "I want to feel what she can do." He raised his eyebrow to her, as if to say "Well, okay, you asked for it," checked his mirrors, engaged the left blinker, and slowly mashed the acceleration pedal against the floor. Betsy moved forward around the station wagon. Jim and Martha were pressed slightly back in their seats, and Martha let out an "oh" of wonder and thrill. Having pulled ahead of the station wagon, Jim flipped his blinker to the right and settled back into the right lane.

"Mmm, that was nice," Martha purred. "I like this car."

"Me, too, darling," Jim replied.

A minute later, Martha sat up in her seat and turned to Jim. "Let's put the roof down, dear!"

"Well now Martha, remember, we don't have our hats with us, and it's a tad chilly out right now. Why don't we wait until next Sunday. It's supposed to be 80 degrees then!"

Martha frowned. "Oh, Jim, don't be such a square! What's the point of having a retractable roof if you don't make use of it? Just for a little while... the sun will feel lovely, I just know it!" Her hands were on his arm, and she beamed with hope at her husband. Jim softened. "Okay, all right. But just for a few minutes."

"Yay!" She let out a little cheer. She cheered as Jim slowed the car and pulled far over onto the shoulder. She cheered as Jim unhooked the roof latches, cheered as he lifted the roof back and folded it into the car. Each cheer was quieter than the one before it; she was slowly shrinking into her seat, her hands clenched and near her face, her body slightly contorted in excitement. As Jim restarted the car, Martha giggled as she hadn't since middle school. Jim was a bit perturbed to see her so overcome, but he quickly forgot it on the road. The wind ruffled his hair, and the sun beat on his shoulders. Wouldn't you know it, Martha was right, Jim thought, and gosh if this isn't just wonderful. He could hear Martha moaning in delight beside him. She had sat up again, and her hair was whipping behind her.

They were cruising near forty miles per hour now, and quickly they came up behind a truck. Jim recognized it as one that had passed them while they were stopped. "Overtake him, darling!" Martha cried breathlessly, and Jim agreed. He thrust downward on the pedal, and Betsy leapt forward, growling. Jim could feel the truck's engine rumbling to the right; Martha squealed and waved to the truck driver as they passed. Jim eased up on the gas, pulled back to the right, and realized that his heart was racing. That was great, Jim old boy, he thought to himself, but let's not get carried away. There will be plenty of automobiles to pass in your lifetime.

"Again!" Martha cried.

"What?" said Jim.

"Again!" she repeated. "Let's go again! Up there, the Volkswagen — let's take it!"

"Darling," Jim began, "let's not get carried away. There will be plenty of --"

"HERE WE GO!!" Martha screamed, and before Jim could move or speak, she grabbed the top of the windscreen, pulled herself halfway up, and thrust her left leg around the gear shift and down onto Jim's right foot. Betsy hurtled forward.

"Martha, what are you doing!" Jim cried. He tugged at his foot and swatted at Martha with his right hand, but it did not perturb her. She was peering over the windscreen, hair streaming backward, pushing with all her might on the accelerator. Jim bellowed her name again, to no reply. He looked down at the pedals, and mashed his left foot against the brake. The engine whined, the brakes squealed, and the whole car began to shake violently. "What am I doing to you, Betsy?!" Jim shrieked, and let up.

They rushed onwards; the Volkswagen was mere seconds away. Martha was riding Betsy like a jockey. "WE'RE COMING FOR YOU!" she bellowed at the rapidly approaching taillights. Jim looked up — they were almost upon it. "Oh my goodness!" he yelped, and jerked the wheel to the left. "OVERTAKING!! Martha screamed at the terrified driver. In an instant they were past the van.

"Okay, Martha, we've done it! Let up, now, please!" But Martha stood still, wind tossing her hair, her eyes watering, transfixed by the oncoming horizon. "Martha, PLEASE!" Jim pleaded. She did not move.

"Clutch..." Jim heard a soft voice whisper to him. "Clutch..." The clutch! he thought, and jammed it down. The engine revved and whined, untethered, but the car began to slow. Jim swerved back into the right lane. Looking out, he saw a mile of straight empty road. I can turn off the car, Jim realized, and twisted the key out of the ignition - the steering wheel locked, but the wheels stayed straight. With the engine off, it was suddenly quiet. Jim pressed on the brake and slowly came to a stop. He flipped on his hazards, took a few deep breaths, and looked up at Martha, who had begun to stomp on the gas pedal in frustration. "Go, go, go!" she was panting.

"Martha."

"Go, go, go, go!"

"Martha!"

"Go, go, go, go, go, go!"

Jim got out of the car, reached over and grabbed Martha around the waist. He pulled her over the side and held her under his arm. Her left foot was still pumping. Half dragging her, he went to the back of the car, and with his other hand opened the trunk. He lifted her up, turned her sideways, and placed her inside. Then he took off his suit jacket and fit it beneath her head. She did not notice; her fists were clenched, her foot jerking. "Oh, Martha," Jim sighed, and shut the trunk.

As he wrestled with the roof, pulling it back up, the Volkswagen sped past, horn blaring. "Sorry!" Jim called out futilely. He latched the roof and got in the car. He turned his hazard lights off, his left blinker on, performed what he hoped was not an illegal U-turn, and headed slowly back into town, his right foot just barely in contact with the gas pedal. "Oh, dear," Jim said aloud. "I knew this car wasn't quite right. I suppose I'll have to stop by the dealership on the way home and trade it in." He drove on, daydreaming about next Sunday's drive.

I HATE MONEY!

I hate money. I HATE MONEY! Money hate I. I hate it so much. Hate hate hate money money money!!! I want to kill it. I want to kill money. I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY!

I hate money so much that now the word "money" looks stupid and meaningless. Ha! take that, "money!" You suck! Sorry, "hate," you are a casualty of war. *

I hate money so much that I didn't just copy and paste all that up there, I actually typed it all in.

I hate money so much that I want to burn all the bills in my wallet, except I know how much more despair I'll feel when I'm seven dollars poorer.

I hate money so much that I want to pick up all this change on my desk and throw it across the room, but I won't because I need this $1.37 in quarters, nickels, pennies, and dimes.

Dollars, pounds, euros, pesos, yen, yuan, loonies - you can all go fuck yourselves. That's right, loonies – you are now officially included in the hate fest; welcome to the big time!

Please do leave your comment about how money is important and necessary and all that — clearly, I need a little perspective.

I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I HATE MONEY! I want to kill money. I want to kill it. Money money money hate hate hate!!! I hate it so much. Money hate I. I HATE MONEY! I hate money.

I hate money.

Slow Drags tour entry #4.

Tuesday, October 9th. 3:57pm. Portland, Oregon.

Saturday night was our last gig on the tour, and we knew it. We had reached the nadir the night before in Willits, when the whole bar cleared out at the beginning of our second set, and we played the rest of the night (an hour and a half) to the bartender and the doorman. Later we were told that we should come back in a month or so, since mid-October is harvest season, and everyone in town is working all day, harvesting. "What are they harvesting?" we asked. "Marijuana," they answered. "Everyone's up at six in the morning to pick, so it's not really a 'let's go out and party' time." Okay.

Ukiah is just a few miles from Willits, so when, at 11pm, we were left with only the employees of the Ukiah Brewing Company and one regular, we chalked it up to another long day in the pot fields. Even with an excuse, it was frustrating. After 3900 miles and 22 days, with nobody to play to, we did not play well, and I, for one, did not care.

The next day we drove 12 hours north. It was as far as we've driven in one day on this tour, but it didn't feel like it. We were mostly quiet, talked a little bit about baseball, not much about the tour or the band. Eugene, Salem, and Portland welcomed us home in succession with rain, as if to say, "Are you sure you want to be back here?" Yes, we do.

Today is gray and chilly, quiet outside. We left at the end of summer, and returned for fall.