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R Webb

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Member Since: Jul, 2012

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The Life and Times of Car Johnson
by R Webb   

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Category: 

Humor

Publisher:  Createspace ISBN-10:  1478138998
Pages: 

185

Copyright:  Aug 8, 2011 ISBN-13:  9781478138990

     

Insanity never tasted so hilarious.

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Car may not be a secret agent, or a mythical beast cast down to earth to save the world, but he has his own brand of adventure. Car’s the kind of man who hangs around a bar, insulting passerby while neglecting to realize he forgot his pants. He’s rude, crude and… someone who thinks you can catch bees while wearing a bee costume.

With a little help from his less than conventional family--including a motorcycling grandma and a sister who wants him dead but can't quite figure out that you can't burn someone to death with a pocket magnifying glass--Car tries to make a name for himself and find a girl as unique as he is, even if it means going on a date with someone who wants him to bury him alive.

The Life and Times of Car Johnson is an insane romp through the mind of a man who doesn't realize just how pathetic he really is. Come on a journey as Car travels the road of life, backwards and with his trusty cow fetus collection, while you ask yourself how anyone could ever think that making a home tanning kit with a flamethrower was a good idea.

Insanity never tasted so hilarious. Now available in mint!*

*Mint not actually included.
*Car bears no resemblance to any person, living or dead. The opinions expressed by Car are not the opinions of any person, living or dead.


Excerpt

The air smelled like cheese. Not a really Christmasy scent, but nothing was traditional at Uncle Frank's place. The red and green beer bottles hanging from the ceiling by bright pieces of tinsel, the paper-mache hula girls with Santa hats and the Christmas fondu and spicy shrimp balls all made for a disturbingly festive atmosphere. After a few Christmas beers, it was positively lovely.

I pulled two beers down from their tinsel hangers, one for me and one for my inner child. I pulled two more down. My inner child's a roaring drunk. I stumbled through a winding path of oversized Star Wars figurines dressed up in a nativity scene. I set one of the bottles next to the miniature Darth Vader Frank had used for the baby Jesus. I guess a black caped villain with a bad case of asthma is similar to the Lord. Uncle Frank seems to think so.

Then again, Frank also thinks that stars look like the tiny eyes of fairies and milk and lemon juice go together. Maybe I should stop trying to see the world through his eyes. My therapist and parole officer would be glad. I don't know if I can, though. Madness does run in our family. I don't mean the common types of madness like depression or even schizophrenia. I'm talking about the "gophers rule the world and pickle necklaces are the next big thing in fashion" type of madness. The slightly creative, mostly stupid way of thinking that causes men to dump loads of money in business ventures that include pets, washing machines and laminating equipment.

Even so, I've done pretty well for myself. I bypassed my brother's reverse skydiving venture and the lawsuit that went with it, and tried to invent a do it yourself tanning kit. It didn't work out as I planned, but I was able to sue several flamethrower manufacturers for an extensive sum. I'm the reason for those "aim away from face" warnings. It was a good thing I was ugly as hell to begin with. Part of the money went to getting surgery to look like Rock Hudson, but without the desire for men.

That was good. Gay guys get all the women, and they don't even want them. My new face leveled the playing field a bit, even if I didn't have that gentle feminine quality women fall for, at least until they realize their new Ferrari has no gas and takes it up the tailpipe. Then they pick the first caveman they see, but only if he has a nice face. I am now that caveman.

Of course, I may smash beer bottles on my head instead of cans, but that just makes me seem all the more dangerous. Women find me edgy and cool, until I accidentally bleed all over their clothing or they catch sight of my cow fetus collection. But by that time I've gotten what I've wanted, so I really don't care.

If I wanted a wife, I'd order her from Russia. I think marriage is an investment, so I want to buy the best. That's why I'd never go Asian. The continent, not the race. Asian chicks are hot, as long as they come from a country I'm familiar with. The ones from far off just seem so foreign to me. Exotic is one thing, but those slanted eyed broads from far away are just too strange for my taste. Don't get me wrong, I'm not some xenophobic rube. It's just that my vision of an ideal mate doesn't come from some place where people eat soft serve ice cream out of toilet shaped bowls (Rocky Mountain Oysters are good enough for me.) Russian girls just seem the safer bet. Their traditions are pretty close to mine and they don't think that mustaches are bad luck (everyone knows bad luck comes from crossing under ladders.)

I know I might come off as a complete ass, but I've smacked my head with beer bottles too many times to even know how to change. And why should I? My life has worked out so far, even if it's been mostly by blind luck. Being a fortunate nutcase isn't that bad. In fact, it's kind of fun. Have you ever bathed naked in a fountain? And even if you have, how many times have you found a stash of silver dollars while washing your hair? My count's seventy nine.

Now, you have to be careful when you fountain bathe. People don't like it, so make sure that you only bathe at night and in a deserted area. Yeah, it's fun to watch the faces of unsuspecting folk as you strip your clothes off and lather Irish Spring all over your body, but they'll call the cops and you'll have to use up a whole stash of silver dollars to bribe your way out of jail. And they don't always call the cops. I once got caught by a group of Super Kinky French tourists and that was NOT fun. Let's just say that I will never look at a croissant the same way again.

By the way, I am aware that not all Frenchmen are Super Kinky. I just happened upon a group that was. There are Super Kinky people in all countries. Super Kinky isn't just an extra dose of kinky. I'm kinkier than a hose. Super Kinky people would use that hose to tie up a goat, while smearing themselves with tar and broken glass and sacrificing their testicles to Suzanne Sommers. They make S and M look like love taps. They put the "fet" in fetish.

You name it, they've tried it and invented new &^%$ that mere mortals can't even imagine without going insane. If you thought bestiality and necrophilia were the most disgusting things you could think of, I have one thing to say to you: Super Kinkies added ping pong balls. I won't even tell you what they do with back hoes.

OK, enough talk about perverts. I got a little sidetracked there. I get sidetracked quite a bit. I once helped my mother move a couch and ended up wasted in Costa Rica with a one eyed prostitute. And I still had the couch. My mom would have been angry with me if she hadn't been laying on it with a hot Latino named Felipe. She gets sidetracked too.




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