Go Fly A Kite

Two days ago while I was at the auxiliary office doing wonderful things in the cafeteria with a lemon poppy seed muffin (namely masticating the hell out of it so as to perpetuate some semblance of a false positive for recent use of opioids), a call came in with news about the beloved TharpSter Truck.


I haven’t discussed the truck lately, so allow me to bring you up to speed with it.


A few years ago, I took it north and deposited it with Junior who was attending school there.  Since then, the truck has been introduced to a whole new way of life.  It’s no longer stationed a mere four miles from work.  As such, it’s getting more miles put on it every year.


Even more disturbing is the fact that it’s stationed in the Dallas – Ft Worth area where the savants behind the freeway system decided to lay it out in the shape of a wiener.



For those of you that doubt me, consider this.  On one of my first visits to that hell hole, my brother who lives there was describing the location of a certain venue which was hosting Def Leppard on their 2009 tour.  When describing where the venue was, he indicated that it was pretty much where the scrotum started.


Anyway, as a result of having to drive among the colossal collection of fetid turd burglars which litter the massive wiener interchange (over compensating, I’m sure), Junior fell victim to a hit and run the other morning.  Some idiot in a Mustang clipped the passenger bumper and didn’t stop to give the boy a genuine mea culpa.




Hearing the story involving a hit and run combined with a Mustang flashed me back to an incident which took place in the life of yours truly.


Authors note:  I’ve mentioned it here before, however I’ll need to mention it again right here and now.  At this point, I refuse to publish the F word here on the most enlightening website on the whole worldwide web.  There’s a block in my skull which allows me to say the word with great frequency, however at the same time I can’t bring myself to either write it down or post it here.  Sadly (not really), that particular colloquialism is integral to the story you’re about to read. 

Spoilers, I know.

Given the necessity of that term to this story, and my refusal to publish the word, I’ve opted to use the old Autocorrect feature which will produce a different term when I type the F word. 

Now back to the story.


The year was 1985.  The city was Casper, Wyoming.  My car was a 1980 Mustang.


One night after seeing a movie (I’m sure it was Back To The Future), my younger brother and I were in my beloved Mustang driving on the I-25 access road.  As I approached the light to turn left under the overpass, an old F-150 comes barreling from under the bridge in the wrong lane, takes a wide right turn, and side swipes the driver’s side of my beloved charcoal gray with the red pin stripe Mustang just behind the door.


The driver didn’t stop, and continued his high rate of speed.


A cop came generally from the same direction and continued to chase my assailant.


Naturally my brother and I were a little shaken for what had just happened.


A few moments passed.  Had it not been for the radio beckoning us to wang chung, the silence would have been deafening.


Finally, my little brother spoke up.  “Wow.  Now you’re the only one in town with a Mustang like this.”


“…….everybody wang chung tonight….”


My response was succinct and to the point.  “Go fly a kite.”


The rest of the night was pretty uneventful.  The drunk who hit me hit two or three other people that same night.


With that particular rite of passage firmly in place in both of the teenaged skulls of the occupants of my Mustang that evening, we moved on to other things.  In my case, I made a subconscious note to recall the story some 30 years later using a vast collection of computers networked together for the soul (or is that “sole”) purpose of sharing pictures of nekid ladies.


I hadn’t set a specific timeline on when that particular story would be recalled, however the occasion of my truck being hit and run by a Mustang the other day brought remnants of the story to mind.  Even still, the Rubik’s Cube that is my subconscious hadn’t completely triggered the edict to post it until I got a text the next day from my bother.



The rest……


Well it’s just the rest.




Randy Tharp

TharpSter is a husband to one woman, a father to two kids, a master to two dogs, an occasional cubical occupant, and unable to make up his mind on an adequate theme for this website.

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