Troy's Rants and Ravings

You must realize that trying to close out this series of blogs having to do with Randy Smith is a daunting task. There was just so much that happened while I worked with him and just not enough time in the world to describe it all…

I mean I could bring up the incredible story of Lee and Steve. Two of the strongest short guys I have ever seen. Steve was the impulsive and young at heart-type guy. While Lee was a bit more mature and also quite a bit stronger, he also was just a bit impulsive himself. Like the time Lee made a spectacular diving catch while playing football in the back lot during a slow time at work.

Let me ask you, while I’ve got you here, just exactly how do you explain to your boss that a 5’6” 300lb man just fell through the windshield of a truck just sitting there minding its own business?

Seems that Steve had motioned Lee to “Go Long”… Well, Lee ran, leapt up, made a spectacular twisting catch and then, as gravity came to exert its own sense of humor, Lee came down on the windshield of our Service Dept. “Trash Truck” and ended up lying in the front seat. Since crashing through a windshield is not an everyday occurrence at any shop I have yet to work at (although maybe I am just lucky that way…) we were all a bit concerned for Lee’s health and well being. That is until we saw Lee’s hand shoot out of the opening formerly occupied by a windshield showing us he had kept possession by holding a rather large paw/hand with a football grasped within it. What could we do? We all cheered and then buried the truck where no one will ever find it.

Then there was the time Steve joined a gym. Why would a guy standing 5’6”, 260lbs, 1% body fat and able to bench press a PeterBilt need to go to a gym?

Come on!! He’s a mechanic, for Gawd’s sake! Haven’t I taught you anything???

So anyway Steve was impressed with himself and how “powerful” he had become. That is until he came to Lee. Lee looked at him critically and, what else, called him a “Pansy.” Steve responded in a way that drew all the other mechanics around to see this battle of the titans:

“Am not!!”

“You’re a freakin’ Pansy.”

“Not either!!”

“Are to”

“Am not”

“Prove it.”

“Uhhhhhhh….”

“Just what I thought…”

“I can pick you up!!”

“What???!!!!”

“I’ll show you!!!!!”

And with that Steve, with no further warning, reached down and put his paw between Lee’s legs and grasped one of his ass cheeks and put his other arm over Lee’s opposite shoulder and, grunting, lifted Lee’s massive form off the ground, turned him 90 degrees so that he was now parallel to the ground and proceeded to shake him. This went on for a few moments before, visibly straining, Steve righted a quite unperturbed and rather stoic looking Lee and slammed him back down to his feet. As Steve caught his breath and the earth stopped shaking, Lee waited patiently. Looking at Steve, waiting for his shaking friend to recover from the obvious strain, he pulled his underwear back into place then asked:

“Steve? You OK??”

“Yeah…I think so.”

“Good. My turn.”

Whereupon without warning, Lee grabbed Steve in much the same way he had just been grabbed and proceeded to flip him completely upside down and empty his pockets of pens, pencils, small change, a yo-yo, a Tonka Truck thought lost, a puppy, 2 Turtle doves and a Partridge in a Pear tree…

We are not talking a gentle up and down movement, here. More like a violent shaking such as you would see after someone has taken an entire bottle of Acme Brand Earthquake pills. The kind of shaking known to shatter whole mountain ranges. And Lee did this at arms length.

Soon figuring that there was nothing left in his friend’s pockets, Lee flipped Steve back over and slammed him to the ground burying Steve up to his knees in the asphalt…and knocking everyone standing within a 3 square mile radius off their feet and raising a cloud into the upper atmosphere… The force approached that of 150 Hiroshima-type atomic bombs…

[Small break here.

Why does everything I see on all those nature shows and news programs equate everything to "Hiroshima-Type" bombs??

Like the programs that describe the Krakatoa Eruption:

"It was the most famous eruption on earth. The force was thousands of times more powerful than the atomic bomb that destroyed Hiroshima."

Or how about a meteor:

"1200 square miles of devastated forest. Trees knocked down in a circle, emanating from a swampy center. Evidence of a massive fire... but no meteorite. Scientists determined that whatever struck Siberia hit with a force of more than 20 million tons of TNT, equivalent to more than 1500 Hiroshima-type atomic bombs."

Would you believe:

"During its life, a category 3 hurricane can unleash more energy than thousands of Hiroshima-type atomic bombs."

Sorry. Just kinda got lost on a tangent...]

“Pansy” he said as he went back to work.

Yeah, there are still a whole passel of stories about my time with Randy. But I gotta tell you, the one I will never get over is the one about the Strip Club we worked next to. They called themselves a “Gentleman’s Club.” You might be a Gentleman when you walk in but by gawd you were a raving sex maniac when or even if you were able to walk out after a an hour or so… “Visibly Turgid State” is good right about here… And by the way YES!!! Visibly Turgid State is the name of my new band!! They’ll be opening for Nuns With Nasty Habits at Carlin’s Bar, Sports Grill and Exterminating Co. Tuesday through Saturday with $3.00 well drinks 5-7pm…

Seeing as we worked the night shift right across the street for this heavenly establishment, we often had the pleasure of servicing the girl’s cars. In exchange for jump starts, fixing flat tires, replacing burned out bulbs etc, we often were treated to platters of Hot Wings, Breasts and Thighs.

Sometimes they would bring us food, too.

Anyway after a particular trying night of Automotive Frustration, Randy and I decided that we needed a beer before going home. And, gee whiz, wouldn’t you know it? The closest place to get a beer was the strip club across the street. Go figure.

So off we went.

We strolled up and Muttly, the bruiser of a bouncer was IDing a couple of kids who looked like they turned 21 that day. You could always tell they were kids because of the way they would try and jump up and look over Muttly’s shoulder, hoping t see maybe a random boob. We jauntily waved at Muttlyas we galloped by, skipping the standard “cover” charge as usual and sauntered in and got our favorite table between the two stages. The nice thing was that EVERYONE there knew us as the 2 guys who could actually fix practically anything that was broken with any of their cars and do it on the cheap. While Randy pretty much only worked on the girl’s cars, but I worked on just about anything no matter whose it was. I figured that the bouncers may just come in handy someday when my well known explosive temper (It has the power of 0.000000000000000000000000001781753 Hiroshima-type atomic bombs!!!) just happened to come into play. So I was happy to help everyone who needed it.

So having gotten our favorite table, Monica, the very naturally top heavy Barmaid wiggled over and set a pitcher of beer in front of us. This girl could stop traffic faster than an activated train crossing and DAMNIT!!! What a caboose!!!! Staring at her I wondered if she was always cold. Seems her twin thermometers were showing that she just always seemed a bit chilly… I asked who was dancing that night and she recited a list of names but my brain stopped working when she got to Amy…

At this a claxon went off in my head. My eyes glazed over. The higher functions that separate humans from the lower life forms were not only muted, they had their power cords ripped out of the wall, were then thrown out the window and then kicked to the curb to be run over by a series of Monster Trucks.

Scientifically, it goes something along the lines of this:

“Attention!! Attention!!! This is Troy’s Para Ventricular Nucleus [Yeah yeah yeah... Just google it, OK?]. We are GO for Dopamine Injection. Standby to consume massive amounts of alcohol!!! Liver!! I am going to need you in top form tonight, don’t let me down. Blood Vessels are GO. Heart, step it up a bit we may be here a while. Lungs, stand by for panting. Mr. Penis, we will be releasing all control to you in Auxiliary Control shortly, but do not push it!! Do NOT jump off prematurely again!!! Brain, standby to standby, release all control on my mark as all thinking will be handled by auxiliary control. We will call you when we need you. Standby for drooling. Annnnnnd DROOL!!!”

And so it goes. Damn, I should write for The Discovery Channel…

Anyway, Amy was just built like a proverbial Brick Shit House and all by herself could be an Olympic Sport. I mean I can see Kurt Gowdy, Chris Economaki and Bob Costas sitting in their chairs discussing the finer point of navigating and actually surviving a er, uh, mmmm, “A DATE” with Amy… I always loved the way Chris Economaki looked with headset on and his big foam covered Microphone as he discussed the finer details of motorsports. Motorsports and dating Amy have a lot in common. Let’s see here:

You could blow up and die in qualifying.

You could miss a curve and die.

You could start out ok, get a stuck throttle and die.

Your engine could just blow before you finish…the race. And die.

You could putter along in last place and hope everyone else would crash, burn and die so you would have a chance to finish strong.

Mid-race you would have to come in for a load of fuel and fresh rubber!!!

After finishing, people pop champagne corks and pour it on your head because, really, deep down, they never though you were really man enough to not die in the attempt…

But all bets are off in you were to add a brass pole to the equation.

Want to see God?

Take (1) Amy.
Add brass pole
Blend 3 cups oil
Jiggle well

and THAT, my friends, is just the ticket….

At the club it was always a case where they had to squeegee the audience down after she was done with her set. Without her even touching anyone, as she took her bows, the entire audience would light up cigarettes and want to cuddle and blow contented smoke rings.

After she finished her set, she came to my chair and, bless her heart, laid her ample bosom on my head and I offered to slide my credit card through her slot. She said she didn’t like plastic…. She would whisper in my ear that she much preferred the feel of my, er, uh, MONEY!! She would then open her G-string and allow me to insert my…uh…DOLLAR!!! Yeah, Yeah!! That’s the ticket! I would just give her a dollar… Yeah, yeah….

“ALL HANDS!!!! This is the Para Ventricular Nucleus. We are losing control and -

“Captain!! I don’t know how much more of this we can take!!! Shields are down to 10%, we just don’t have the power!!! We are approaching complete MELT DOWN!! All idicators are in the red. If we lose those dilithium crytals… I’ve got a crew trying to wrest control from the Auxilary Control room, but it’s hard!!!”

“Captain’s log: The unit known as Amy has battered our defenses and it looks as if we may be lost. Auxiliary Control has taken over and we are attempting to regain control without much success. I fear that Amy’s sexuality has battered our defences to junk, pressure is building, an uncontrolled critical mass explosion seems imminent. If anyone receives this message, warn all others in this sector that there is no going back. That is all.”

Despite the fact that she would always have to hand me my wallet and car keys back and make me settle for a little peck on the lips, I didn’t care. Lust is blind and all that…

“ALL HANDS!!!! This is the Para Ventricular Nucleus. Secure from Battle Stations. Amy has left the table and we have managed to wrest control back from Auxilary Control and all indicators are returning to normal. Damage control parties report minimal leakage, disappointment that the mission was cancled and that damage is being tended to as we speak. All hands, secure from panting and drooling. That is all.”

Anyway…

After her set, she would make her way from table to table to get her tips. Here and there she would be complimented and yet not get a tip. God bless her little heart, she still would stop and chat and make nice even if there was no money in it for her… That is UNTIL….

It seems that those 2 young guys (probably freakin’ lot attendants) we had seen at the door were sitting enjoying the show a few tables over and yet did not realize that the ettiqutte of the “Gentleman’s Club” required you to at least acknowledge the presence of the dancer as she approached. Even if you do not tip her, _acknowledge_ her. And, well, this is where things get rather interesting…

The boys got pretty damned interested in the bottom of their beer glasses as Amy approached. Instead of smiling and nodding at her, they just looked down into their respective beers. Their expressions looked to me as if they bordered on panic. Amy started playing with the hair of the one closest to me. He visibly jumped and shot a panic-filled face to his buddy. She asked if they liked the show.

No answer.

She frowned and then laid her Award Winning Bazooom on his head and asked again if they liked her dancing.

Even more panic registered.

She glanced over at me and frowned. I gave a huge shrug in answer. Randy Smith meanwhile was muttering “Uh, Troy? This does not look good. What are they doing? Don’t they -”

At that moment Amy removed her Bodacious Ta Tas from the one guys head and moved to put her head between the 2 boys and turned up the volume a tad.

“Uh, boys, you do realize I have to pay to dance here. I work only for tips and if you enjoy the show, you tip me to show your appreciation. If you think I only did “so-so” you at least smile and nod or acknowledge me somehow and then I will leave you alone. It is just really bad form to ignore me or any of the other dancers. I mean you can get a beer anywhere, so why did you come here? Figured you would see some nice titties and then go home and jack off?”

I am now watching with rapt attention. This is going nowhere really fast and the battle lines have ben set. The boys have now turned crimson as they now realize the trouble they are in and instead of saying something, handing Amy a dollar or 50 or just running away, they have escalated their panic filled glances at each other…

Randy Smith is now showing the eons old survival skill known as “fight or flight” and is scanning the windows for which one would be the most convenient one to dive out of in a brazzen escape attempt.

I, on the other hand, am staring with rapt amazement at this drama unfolding before me. Amy, still slightly perplexed, has now stood up and is looking at one then the other. Finally she glances at me and gives me a huge wink and claps one hand on each of the boys shoulders and announces at the top of her lungs:

“I know what you boy’s problem is!! You boys are a pair of Limp Dicked Mother Fuckers!!!”

It was at this point I, well, uh, I guess I just lost control of myself. Leaping out of my chair I screamed at the top of my lungs -

“WINNER WINNER WINNER”

and started waving a dollar around over my head. Amy, smiling with a brightness equal to 14 of our own suns, came over, gave me a kiss and took my dollar. I hurriedly grabbed the stack of dollar bills of the table I had been using to buy beer and tip the girls and readied them for instant action. She, meanwhile, headed back towards the fray.

“I don’t think you’re Gay, I just think you are a pair of limp dicked mother fuckers who need popcicle sticks to hold their dicks up when you can even find your dicks…”

“WINNER WINNER WINNER”

Another dollar, another even bigger kiss!! Woooo Hoooo!!

This went on for a while with me screaming “WINNER WINNER WINNER” and the exchange of money and ever more passionate kisses every time they got insulted by that beautiful little hard body. It would have been a toss up whether I was going run out of money or get laid right there on the table if it had not been for Scott, the Manager, coming over and Rick, the absolutely largest human being I have ever seen, putting a Ford Pinto-sized hand on my shoulder and asking me to please keep my seat. The boys were now ready to crawl away from Amy sobbing and yet ready to do Gladiator-style combat with me. Randy Smith, needless to say, being a rat bastard coward, had already climbed out the bathroom window, ran to his car and pedalled as fast as he could off toward his Doublewide in Santee (“Where the Smog meets the Sea in Beautiful Santee!!!”).

Needless to say, order was soon restored. The boys were given a fresh pitcher of beer, Amy was suitably chastized and I, well…

“Troy, I can’t have you encouraging bad behavior by my dancers… By the way thanks for looking at my truck, it’s never run so good! I’m really sorry but I’m gonna have to suspend you from coming back for 30 days and could you look at my brakes? Their squeeking…”

Alas, before my suspension had run it’s course I was transfered to a different store with no strip club nearby. Randy Smith soon joined me at the other store and mayhem reigned until I finally quit and went to work for the World Domination Motor Car Company where I remain to this day.

I would like to say it was really good to see Randy Smith, and in a way it was… But!! Now that I know where he works, and the fact that he kept telling me how far and wide his fame has spread what with telling everyone his “Weenie-Licker” story….

Well, just stay tuned as I plot the revenge that has been brewing for 13 long years….

Troy Ok, So I'm an Idiot...