The Wanderers build

[java]

Sounds just about perfect! More boost is always the answer Only downside to flat towing is if you break something badly.

Are you just using Airsoft pellets? I am considering them for my truck, I get a shake around 72 that I am guessing is heavy ass unbalanced tires.

I use Daisy BBs. I don't like airsoft because they break into dust after awhile. Of course, BBs will eventually rust so they're not perfect either.

One of those things I did when I built my '40 was make it so that I could break 3 axles and still keep rolling. If it's worse then that, I simply get it to pavement and call AAA.

Cool thanks, seems some people like the softer airsoft as they don't beat the wheels up as much. But yeah powder is no good for valve stems.

Sent from my SM-G950U using Tapatalk

 

[superbuickguy]

Cool thanks, seems some people like the softer airsoft as they don't beat the wheels up as much. But yeah powder is no good for valve stems.

Sent from my SM-G950U using Tapatalk

I haven't pulled the tires off the rims so I honestly don't know - that said, they do roll inside the tire until centrifugal force keeps them in the point that needs the counter weight so I can't imagine they do anything to the wheels... but I dunno, it's just conjecture at this point.

 

[superbuickguy]

fixed the noise - the starter bendix didn't fully retract. New starter, much quieter

 

[superbuickguy]

THE WANDERERS # 65







HEADLINE: THE WANDERERS



SUBHEAD: ZONED-OUT!



BYLINE: BY RICK SIEMAN











When we last left Carl and Emma, they were heading North, eventually hoping to spend some time in Canada, but they had no real schedule to follow. Carl was in a foul sort of mood, as he had just lost a bet with Emma and would be forced to wash dishes for the next month.

Since they didn't have to be anywhere at a certain time, Emma was concerned as to why Carl was speeding. She had seen the signs alongside the road, and they all clearly read "55 MPH"; meanwhile, Carl had been doing a steady 70 mph.

Emma cleared her throat. "Dear? Is there any reason you're driving at 70 miles per hour?"

Carl shifted his wad of chew from his right cheek to his left cheek. He was a right-side chewer and right-side speaker, so in order to speak clearly, it was necessary to shift the load to the left cheek. "Yeah. I'm doing 70 miles per hour because this is a nice wide smooth road, there ain't any traffic at all and conditions for driving are just about perfect. The engine is happy as a kitten with a dead bird at this speed. Why do you ask?"

"Well, because there are all those signs along the road that say "55 "MPH, and I'd hate to see you get a ticket."

"Ticket, schmicket. I ain't slowin' down for nobody."

Emma thought for a moment. "Tell you what, if you slow down, I'll make polish sausage and sauerkraut tonight."

The big Suburban slowed down almost immediately. Carl turned his head toward Emma and a light drool was forming on his lower lip. "With brown horseradish mustard and rye bread?"

"Yes dear. And I think there's a six pack of Noche Bueno beer tucked in the back of the fridge."

Carl's eyes got real wide. "You got yourself a deal, Emma! I'll just drop 'er down to exactly 57 miles per hour." With that, Carl set the cruise control to 57 and settled back in his Captains Chair. "Yum, yum. Sausage n' kraut. Oh boy!"

Emma looked over at the speedo. "Carl? Why are you doing 57 miles per hour when the speed limit is 55 miles per hour?"

"Simple. No cop in the world is gonna give you a ticket for goin' two miles an hour over the speed limit. Not even the nastiest, foulest, most mean-spirited badge-carrier is that chicken-lipped to ..."

Carl's monologue was interrupted by the sound of a siren and the sight of red lights flashing in the rear view mirror.

"What the ...?"



He pulled The Whale off the road to the shoulder, shut the key off, and got out of the cab with a real attitude. The cop also got out of his cruiser, and with his holster un-buckled and right hand on his hip near the piece, walked slowly and carefully toward Carl.

A red-faced Carl, figuring the best defense was an offense, walked up to the cop, hands on hips, and got right in his face. "So what's the deal, Dirty Harry? I was right at fifty-five miles per hour, more or less, and you're pulling me over?"

Eyes hidden behind huge mirrored sun-glasses, the cop never smiled when he answered. "You were doing exactly fifty-seven miles per hour, sir. And that is against the law."

"What? You're going to write me up for that? Of all the **&^$&*&***%#$@, cheap, @#$%^^@$%^&*, rotten, dirty little **&&^$#^&$#@# things I ever heard of, this takes the cake. You, sir, ought to be ashamed of yourself. For a lousy fifty-seven miles per hour? What next, ******** Tracy? Are you gonna bust kindergarten kids for spittin' in the park?"

The jaw on the cop tightened up and his lips got real thin. "Sir, I think maybe you ought to reign it in a little bit. After all, I'm just doing my job and ..."

"Sure, and so were the Nazi's during WW II!"

The cop bristled. "Hey, now hold it pal! I served in World War II."

Carl got right back in his face. "Yeah? On which side?"

By this time, the cop was beet red and fighting hard to control his temper. "Look, I've had enough of this crap. I was just going to give you a warning when I stopped you, but now I'm going to write you a ticket. Now just shut up and let me see your license, please ... sir."

Carl folded his beefy arms over his chest. "I don't think I will. And what's more, if you write a ticket, I don't think I'll sign it. So what do you think about that, Elliott Ness?"

The cop sighed. "Then, sir, I'll have to run your fat butt in and bring you before the judge. Simple as that. So let's not make this any worse that it is. Get that license out, I'll give you the ticket, and then you can drive off by yourself and call me all the names you want when I'm out of sight."

"I'm not signing anything, J. Edgar Hoover! No judge would convict me for doing 57 miles per hour. So you either take me in, or let me go. And make it snappy, 'cause I'm a busy man."

In less than one minute flat, the cop had the cuffs out and locked around Carl's wrists. When Carl was placed in the back of the cop car and looked at the outer world through a thick wire screen, he began to wonder just a little bit if he hadn't gone too far.



The cop told Emma to follow him into town in The Whale. He really felt crummy as he saw the tears stream down the face of the obviously nice lady, and his heart almost broke as she wailed, "Ohhhh, don't take my Carl away! He's not a bad man, officer."



***



After booking Carl and conducting him to a holding cell, the cop removed the cuffs. "You're lucky. The Judge is holding an afternoon session, so you won't have to spend the night in jail. But let me give you some advice, pal. You look like you're basically a decent sort. Ease off that sour attitude. Judge Bender won't take any of that lip."

Carl's upper lip curled into an Elvis-like sneer. "Yeah? Well, wait until I tell him that you wrote me up for doing a lousy fifty-seven miles per hour. I wouldn't be surprised if he chews you up one side and down the other."

The cop looked puzzled, but left, figuring there was no sense in arguing with a nut-case.



***



Judge Bender walked into the courtroom, whacked his gavel on the bench and called everything to order. Carl was the first case on the docket.



The Judge eye-balled the paperwork in front of him, then called Carl up to the stand. "It appears, sir, that you were speeding out on Highway 18 just south of town. The officer observed you doing fifty-seven miles per hour. How do you plead to the charges?"

 

[superbuickguy]

Carl put his hands on his hips like ********************** and strode back and forth in front of the Judge. "Judge Fender, I'd like ..."

"The name is Judge Bender."

"Right. Gotcha. So Judge Blender, here I was, goin ..."

"The name is Judge Bender. B - E - N - D - E - R."

"Certainly. Well, there I was Judge Gender, mindin' my own business, driving down that road, under ideal conditions, I might add, doing 57 miles per hour. When this cop over there has the nerve to pull me over and tries to give me a ticket. Can you beat that? For a lousy 57 miles per hour! It's not as if I was doing a 100 miles per hour in a school zone. We're talkin' fifty-seven miles per hour here. So what I want to ask you, Judge Fender, is what's the big deal?"

The judge drummed his fingers on his bench for a few moments and thought. "The big deal, sir, is that you were in a school zone. And the speed limit in that school zone is 15 miles per hour. Care to comment on this?"

Carl looked confused. "Hey, wait a minute, Judge Blender, I ..."

"Please, sir. The name is Judge Bender. Or if you can't keep that straight in your mind, a simple 'Your Honor' will do."

"Well, Your Honor, that cop has got to be way off base. I definitely remember looking out the window and seeing signs that said 55 MPH. In fact, there was one sign I distinctly remember right next to the Tastee Freeze stand out on Highway 18."

"Correct! And right after that sign, about 1/2 mile further down the road, is where the school zone starts. Was it possible that you might have been distracted and did not see the sign, sir?"

"Uh, well, I was arguing ... I mean talking ... with my wife about the possibility of speeding, and maybe I didn't see the sign. I mean, that is, well, uhhh .... Judge Fender, are you pullin' my leg about that school zone sign?"

The good Judge bristled. "Sir, I do not pull people's legs, especially in court of law. And the name is Blender, I mean Bender. Good Lord, man, now you've got me doing it."

Carl looked very sheepish. "So if I was in a 15 mile per hour zone, and I thought I was in a 55 mile per hour zone, it's quite possible that I might owe that cop a small apology. You see, I didn't figger any cop could be picky enough to stop a vehicle that was only doing 57 miles per hour."

The Judge thoughtfully scratched his chin for a moment. "Let me get this straight, sir. You knew you were going 57 miles per hour in what you thought was a 55 mile per hour zone. Is that in fact the case?"

"Well, you sorta kinda could say that."

"Is that a yes?"

"Uhhh, well, actually that's a yes, I guess."

"In other words, you were speeding on purpose, knew it, and were simply upset because you thought the officer was ticketing you for such a small infraction of the law? Is that correct?"

"Ummmm, pretty much, Judge Binder."

"So you jumped down the officer's throat even though you were purposely breaking the law?"

"Hey, you really couldn't blame me, Judge Blinker. After all, what kind of a cop would bust a normal citizen for a lousy two miles per hour?"

"But, in reality, sir, you were doing 42 miles over the speed limit. Is that not correct?"

"You might say that, Judge Bounder."

Judge Bender sat back in his chair, made a tent of his fingers with his hands, and thought for a few minutes. "Tell you what, sir. You don't seem like a bad person. However, you do seem like a person with a short fuse, and one who is willing to bend the traffic laws a bit, if not actually break them. So I am not going to fine you."

Carl beamed. "You're not? That's great!"

The Judge held up a finger. "But I'm not letting you off scot-free. Not by a long shot. Instead, sir, I'm going to sentence you to 40 hours of community service. I've talked with your wife, and she assured me that you're not on any sort of a schedule that demands your presence elsewhere. Are you comfortable with this decision, sir?"

"I dunno. I think I'd rather pay the fine and get on down the road, if it's all the same to you, Judge Bonger."

"Well, it's not all the same to me. The choice I'm giving you is this: Forty hours of community service or one week in jail. Take your pick."

Carl thought for only a micro-second. "Hey, I've always been a community-oriented kinda guy. Sounds like a plan to me, Judge **********."

Judge Bender simply sighed heavily, then whacked his gavel down firmly on the bench. "Good! Then you'll report to Officer Dexter T. Flognart, the arresting officer, for assignment to community service."

Carl was stunned. "You mean the cop that arrested me will be in charge of my community service?"

"Yes. So I suggest you learn how to get along with Officer Flognart. Perhaps the self-discipline will benefit you."

Carl let out a big sigh. "OK, Judge Binkley, you got me over a barrel. I'll do my best."

"Excellent! Just follow Officer Flognart out of the courtroom, and he'll have you sign some papers. And good luck, Charles." "The name is Carl, Judge. Ya know, I don't want to show no dis-respect, but you really ought to work a bit on getting names straightened out."

The gavel descended on the bench with a "whacking" sound. "Case dismissed!"



***



Well, now. Just what has Carl gotten himself into? Will things get ugly? Or will they just get more weird?

We'll find out next month.

 

[s.e.charles]

times when weird is good

 

[superbuickguy]

Just for the record, I post this story as continuation, but I do not support, condone or like it.


THE WANDERERS # 66







HEADLINE: THE WANDERERS



SUBHEAD: COMMUNITY SERVICE?


BYLINE: BY RICK SIEMAN










Let's bring you up to speed, which is a fairly poor choice of words, as Carl got himself in a heap of trouble by speeding. You see, Carl was cruising along as usual, two miles per hour over the speed limit, a speed he carefully chooses, figuring no cop would be chicken enough to stop him for that.

So when officer Dexter T. Flognart pulled him over, Carl sort of exploded. You might even say that he verbally climbed up one side of the officer and down the other. In fact, he never even gave officer Flognart a chance to get a word in edge-wise.



It was only when Carl got in front of the judge, that everything became all too clear. You see, Carl had not been driving in a 55 mile per hour zone when he was so smugly doing a steady 57 mph. Nope. As luck would have it, he had just entered a school zone with a 15 mph speed limit, but had not noticed the sign. So, instead of doing two miles an hour over the speed limit, he was a hefty 42 miles per hour on the hot side of the law.

Instead of throwing Carl into the slammer for a week, or nailing him with a hefty fine, the judge sentenced him to 40 hours of community service .. under the assignment of officer Dexter T. Flognart, the very man who had busted him!

We join Carl now, as he reports for the start of his community service at the local outdoor swimming pool:

***

Officer Flognart stood up on a milk crate and looked out over the group of 12 men, traffic offenders all. "OK, listen up you people. Swimming season will start pretty soon, so I want to see this place look like a million bucks by the end of this week. There are a lot of crummy jobs that have to be done, so I'm going to put a list of some of the better jobs up here on the bulletin board, and I'll allow you to volunteer for them as you see fit. After this, I will assign jobs not posted. So take a few minutes to study this list."

Carl wandered (what else?) over to the bulletin board and studied the list. Hmmmm. Nothing looked too promising. Scrubbing the pool. Painting the life guard shack. Cleaning all the pumps and filters. Painting the fences and gates. Fixing the roof on the life guard and maintenance shack. Clean all the equipment.

Carl turned to a big burly guy next to him. "Hi. I'm Carl. What are you here for?"

"Hullo. I'm Big George. They call me that 'cause I weigh 275 pounds. They got me for doin' 185 in a 35 mile per hour zone."

"What? A hunnert and how-much in a 35 zone? You can't be serious!"

"Serious as a dead rat. You see, I run an alcohol-burning funny car at the local drag strip, and was out one night doing some last minute testing on old highway 14. It's pretty wide and straight and you got enough room to shut down. I checked the road out ahead of time, but I never saw Officer Flognart sitting behind that Mail Pouch sign. He got me real good, and there wasn't a whole lot I could say. Hells-fire, he coulda wrote me up for 20 different violations, ya know, no mufflers, no registration, stuff like that. So I guess the speeding charge wasn't all that bad."

Carl shook his head from side to side. "Hmmm. You'd think he just woulda let you off. After all, you were just checkin' your machine out. This Flognart guy seems like a real hard-ball."

Big George scratched one of his chins. "He's pretty much a straight shooter, but he has a reputation where no one has ever beat him at his game, whether it's giving out tickets, or making people produce during community service sentences. He used to be in the Marines, ya know. And those guys are tough."

Carl bit his lower lip. "Not as tough as a Navy man, my friend. I think it's about time we teach Officer Flognart a lesson."

Big George smiled broadly. "Sounds good by me. So, which one of these jobs do we apply to, for starters?"

Carl shook his head. "None of 'em. These are all chump jobs. Let the geeks grab 'em." Big George and Carl stood back while the other men signed up for the jobs.



Officer Flognart checked over the sheet and got tight-lipped. "It appears that everyone but you two signed up for a job. That means you get the one job that's left; and that is cutting the grass."

Officer Flognart waved his arms around slowly, indicating the acres of tall green grass surrounding the pool. There was a whole lot of green land out there. "You two boys get that big lawn mower out of the shed and fire it up. You can take turns working it."

Big George and Carl went to the shed and extracted the huge old mower from a cluster of rakes, shovels, and garden hoses. It was a monster! Perhaps 25 years old, the mover had a huge flathead V-twin engine, and a gaggle of belts drove the giant fourfoot rotary cutter. It had a three position gearbox - Forward, Neutral and Reverse - and the big rubber wheels were driven by a secondary set of belts.

They fired the machine up, and after emitting a black smoky cloud, and clattering like bowling balls in an empty box car, it settled down to a lumpy idle. Carl put it into gear with a grinding sound and drove it out to the grassy fields. He lowered the blade with a lever, and engaged the drive belts with another lever.

The huge mower lurched underway and started churning a swath through the knee deep grass. It was a warmish day and bugs were flying around everywhere. Up his nose. In his eyes. Sticking to his sweaty body. After a few passes, he turned the controls over to Big George.

It only took an hour or less for them to figure out that the mowing job was the bottom one on the heap. Between the bugs, the heat and the grass swirling through the air and covering them from head to foot, this was clearly misery on a high level.

Officer Flognart blew a whistle and yelled for them to take a ten minute break. Big George fixed a grassy-eyed stare on Carl. "I don't think we picked the best job available, old buddy. I think I'd rather spend the rest of my time in jail than behind that dag-blasted lawn mower."

Carl raised one eyebrow and smirked. "Not to worry, big fella. As soon as we get back out there after this break, that mower is dust! Trust me on this."

Ten minutes later, they were mowing away once again. As soon as they got out of sight, Carl stopped the machine. Big George was curious. "What are you gonna do, Carl?"

"Just watch for a minute, then pitch right in." With that, Carl started jumping up and down on the belts and twisting them around with a big stick. Big George got in the spirit of things and leapt up and down on the belts with gusto. Soon, all the belts on the mower were sagging like noodles. Carl and Big George walked back, and found Officer Flognart. "Hey, Dexter. You better get somebody to work on that machine. It won't even turn the blade or the wheels anymore."

Officer Flognart checked the mower out, agreed that it was hurting, and called the repair crew out. Carl and Big George sat around happily chewing while the crew replaced all the belts. Near the end of the day, they had everything working fine again, and the two guys headed back out to mow again.

"Now what?" asked Big George.

"Easy. We kill the machine. Just watch."

Carl got down and drained all the oil out of the engine, then moved the mower a good distance away from the evidence. He fired up the machine and starting happily mowing away.

 

[superbuickguy]

Amazingly, the mover went for almost 15 minutes at full throttle before the engine started clattering and screeching, then made a coughing sound and stopped dead in its tracks with a loud clunking noise.

Ten minutes later, Officer Flognart was studying the silent mower. "Hmmm. Well, you boys call it a day. Looks like the repair crew has their work cut out for them."

Big George was impressed, and said so, as the two swilled down a few cold beers later on. "Smooth move, Carl! But what happens when they bring that thing back all rebuilt?"

Carl sucked the dregs out of a big mug and belched. "No problem-O! I ain't seen the machine yet that I couldn't break. Ya see, I've been off-roadin' for 40 years, and I've busted everything from dune buggies, to dirt bikes, to trucks, to all-terrain vehicles. To me, this is nothing more than another type of off-road vehicle. So all I have to do is abuse it. And believe me, this machine will go down for the count. Bet on it!"

The next morning, the mower showed up and the repair crew from the county said they had to put a fresh motor in it, as the old one had turned into a solid lump of metal.

Big George and Carl mowed for about a half hour, and then Carl pointed to a water pipe sticking out of the ground about a foot high. By leaning heavily on the bars, Carl and Big George were able to raise the front of the mower up, and then lower it down on the stout metal pipe - with the motor running at full throttle.

The sound of the blade hitting the pipe was horrendous, followed by the gut-wrenching sound of the gearbox spitting its teeth off the shafts.

A few minutes later, Officer Flognart was squatting by the machine, inspecting the mangled blade. Carl shrugged his shoulders. "Gee, sorry about that, Dexter. But there was no way we could see that pipe sticking up in the tall grass."

The crew came and took the poor machine away, and Carl and Big George got to take off early once again. But the very next morning, the repair crew showed up with a running machine once again. The crew chief had a suspicious look in his eyes. "Don't know how you fellers managed to screw that machine up so bad. Lucky for you we had a couple of spare trannys in the shop."

Carl and Big George had to cut grass for a solid two hours, as Officer Flognart walked around the fields near them, keeping an eye on the work in progress. As soon as he headed off for lunch, Carl drove the mower over to the maintenance shed, stuffed it inside, set the throttle to full, then closed the door tightly.

The outside temperature was about 80 and soon the inside temperature of the shed got to be at least twice that. The dull roar of the motor changed pitch and heat waves could soon be seen rising off the roof of the shed. A few minutes later, a strangled sound came from the engine, and then it emitted a shriek, much like train wheels locking up on steel rails. Everything got silent, and whisps of smoke curled out of the cracks of the door.

Carl and Big George dragged the dead mower back out to the fields, parked it, and waited for Officer Flognart.

When he did, they really hammed it up. "Boy, I don't know what the heck it is with this machine, but I think you got yourself a real lemon here. I had me a International Harvester once that I couldn't keep running, no matter what I did."

Flognart gritted his teeth, said nothing, and once again called the county repair crew. They said nothing, but put out some very strange looks as they loaded the non-functioning machine in the back of a tired old flat-bed truck.

Still, somehow, the very next morning, the repair crew had the mower back, sitting there all shiny. "We never seen anything warped so bad. The barrels was banana-shaped, the valves looked like tulips and all the gaskets were melted off. It was almost like the thing was running inside an oven. But we put a whole new top end on it, and checked everything out. This thing should run for a couple a years now."

Thursday was pure misery, as Officer Flognart sat in the bed of his pickup truck in a lawn chair most of the day, watching Big George and Carl mow away. Right around two in the afternoon, he took off for lunch.

Carl let out an evil smile. "Now let's really get this machine good!"

Big George got all big-eyed. "I'm not so sure about that, Carl. We've only got one more day to work, so why push our luck?"

"It's a matter of principal, Big George. You yourself told me that nobody ever beat Dexter T. Flognart at his own game. So it falls to you and me to make him come in a distant second place."

George sighed. "OK. We'll give it one last shot and see if we can break him What do you propose?"

"Easy. First we get this thing good and hot. Then just follow my lead."

Carl put the mower into gear and headed toward the pool area. Then he put it in neutral and ran it up to full rpm for a while. He put some spit on his finger, and touched the fins; the spit sizzled!

"OK, we're ready. I'll grab the left handle; you grab the right one."

Carl guided the mower toward the pool, and with a mad look of glee on his face, pushed it in! A gut-wrenching cracking sound came from the mower, and a huge cloud of steam spiraled up to the sky. Big George and Carl tugged on the handles and dragged the heavy mower out. In minutes, it was bone dry. And deader than a moldy plank.

A half hour later, Officer Flognart showed up, and Carl started to explain the situation to him. Flognart held up his hand in protest: "Never mind. Just forget the story. You win. I don't know what the heck you've been doing to this machine, but the community simply cannot afford your community service any more. You two guys take off. And as for you, Fat Boy, I suggest that you simply leave town. I don't like losing."



***



Emma was surprised. "Carl! You're home early."

"Well, ya see, Officer Flognart let me off a day early. I guess because I was so community minded."

"How nice! Should we stop by and thank him?"

"Uhhh. maybe not. Let's just hit the road."

 

[superbuickguy]

THE WANDERERS # 67




HEADLINE: THE WANDERERS

SUBHEAD: DRIVIN', AFTER MIDNIGHT

BYLINE: BY RICK SIEMAN





We join them now, as they're driving away from a week of community service that Carl got nailed with for speeding.

Emma flipped on the small map light and aimed it at her copy of Modern Senior Woman Illustrated Magazine. "I still don't know why you like to drive at night, Carl. We could have gotten up early in the morning and headed down the road."
Carl bit off a chew of Red Man tobacco and settled it in his right cheek before answering. "You got to consider the plus things and the minus things about night driving. The minus stuff is that you can't see real good. The plus side is that you can pick up all kinds of neat radio stations. You might not believe this, Emma, but here we are in the Northwest part of the United States, and I betcha I can still pick up Nashville or Memphis on the radio."
Emma looked up from her magazine. "So?"
Carl shifted his wad of chew from right to left. "So? What a
dumb-butt question! Don't you know that the very best country and western music comes out of Nashville and Memphis? And the best of the best is on at night, when the truckers of the nation are out there moving stuff back and forth, as needed. You get almost non-stop music, without too many commercials. And the commercials you get are usually pretty cool. For example, those mud-flaps I got on the back with the chromed cut-out of the nekkid woman, I got them from a commercial out of Memphis."
Emma sniffed her nose upward. "Yes. How could I forget?
They do add a certain amount of 'class' to our vehicle."
"Right! You might see those kinda flaps on maybe a couple hundred thousand semis, but other than that, they're pretty rare. But enough small talk, let's flip on our new radio and see if we can grab a station out of the air from a couple thousand miles away."

With that, Carl flipped on the "POWER" switch on the brand new Zeppelin Gut Blaster Gronk-0-Matic Stun Fazer Electro-Whackoid Tazer-Blitz Boom-Master Mark 12 plus II Extra Bomber-Blow-Out Digital Flame-Thrower Sonic-A+ System.
He set the scan/search button for eight seconds and hit it.

... scan ... scan ... scan ...
" ... if you're tired of losing money on investments, consider putting your money where the professionals do; in Famous Bowlers Trading Cards. Yes, you score a strike when these nifty cards double, triple or even quadruple in value over the years. Of course, we can't guarantee ..."

... scan ... scan ... scan ...
" ... so if you think you can't make great meals out of broccoli, you're wrong. Stick with us as we chat with guest chef, Pierre LaPoofe, as he explores the fascinating world of broccoli ..."

... scan ... scan ... scan ...
" ... save big bucks on your next car. So hurry on down to Fun-Time Motors in down town St. Louis, where we sell and service the very best in new and used Yugos, Fiats and Peugots. Just ask for ..."

... scan ... scan ... scan ...
" ... best in talk radio with Frank and Fred. Our guest tonight is Bertha Forniscue, from the Save The Gay Whales Foundation. Across from her, is Findley McSweet, from the Wisconsin Ban All Guns and Knives and Clubs Association. And joining us in our last hour, will be Geho Ming, from the Mongolian Anti-Defamation League, so sit back and ..."

... scan ... scan ... scan ...
" ... and who wouldn't be concerned when your petunias start losing their petals? How to stop it? You might do what champion petunia growers do: use Petunia-Gro! Available in 16 ounce spray bottles and..."

... scan ... scan ... scan ...
" ... adds up to 15 miles more per tank and literally doubles the engine life of your car. Just pour in a bottle of Lube-A-Lot RX-2000, and forget about tune-ups and expensive rebuilds. Made from space-age chemicals and exotic ..."

... scan ... scan ... scan ...
" ... yellow teeth and an ugly smile? Well, don't worry about when you use Smile-O-Dent paste. A unique combination of scouring powder, baking soda, fluoride by-products and swimming pool chlorine, it can turn a foul mouth into ..."

… scan … scan … scan …
" ... six in a row coming right up, starting with three golden goodies from Willie Nelson and three recent hits from Waylon. But first, have you ever wanted to get into the exciting and high-paying world of big-rig drivers? Sure you have. Well, now you can do it! Just call the Memphis White Line Fever Trucking School a call. We'll teach you how to ..."

"Hot damn, Emma! I told you we'd pick up Memphis or Nashville! That is one serious radio!"
"It ought to be, since it cost us about six of your retirement checks!"

They drove steadily onward through the night, the four huge pencil beams up front boring a crisp white light through the darkness, and listened to the mellow sounds seep from the radio.

At the end of the six record play, the announcer came back on. "How 'bout that, folks. Them two is good. And you can't hardly beat a classic like Whiskey River. Which brings us to our fantastic contest: Write a country song and send it in. You could be the winner of $5000 and an all-expense paid trip to the Grand Old Opry, as well as having your song recorded by Ferlin Merlin, and played on the air here for two solid weeks."
Carl turned the radio louder and yelled, "Get a pencil and paper ready, woman!"
The announcer smoothly continued. "So get a pencil and paper ready, 'cause I'm only gonna give this here address out once. Send all entries to Music Makers Contest, P.O. Box ..."
Emma scribbled as fast as her fingers would allow. " ... And don't forget to send all your entries on a standard cassette tape. You don't have to sing the words, but you should at least talk your way through the song. All songs must be between two and three minutes long. So get busy, buckaroos,
and ..."
Carl clicked the radio off and smacked his palm on the steering wheel. "Whip out that big yellow note pad in the magazine rack, Emma. We're gonna write us a money winnin' song!"

 

[superbuickguy]

Emma sighed. "Carl, we don't know anything about song-writing. We'd just be wasting our time."
"Well, you can't exactly paint the Moaner Lisa while we're drivin' down the road, can you?"
"You mean 'Mona Lisa', don't you?"
"Yeah. That one, too."
"But how do we start? How do you know what should go in a country and western song?"
"Easy. You just write about gettin' drunk, evil women, pickup trucks, good dogs, horses, guns, shootin' people, whiskey, beer, good women, more whiskey, beautiful women, ugly women, cheatin' women, cheatin' men, gambling, chasin' after women, gettin' drunk with your buddies, crashin' your truck into rivers and waking up with nasty hangovers. What could be simpler?"
"Well, for one thing, you actually have to write a song. You have to tie it together ... make some kind of story ... start somewhere, and then have a surprise ending, or something like that." Carl just laughed. Tell you what, Emma. You get behind the wheel and handle The Whale for a while, and I'll scribble out a prize winning song before you pass the next burger place."

Emma reluctantly got behind the wheel of the huge Suburban and settled in to the comfy Captain's chair. As soon as she got up to 55 miles per hour, she flipped the cruise control on, then, noting that there was no traffic at all on the deserted back road, flipped the switch for the huge 185 watt pencil beam lights on. Fwwooooooomp! The lights literally punched a hole through the darkness.
A suicidal moth fixed its little pea-brain on the left pencil beam and spiraled into it, instantly driving its tiny mind right through its butt. The heat from the light quickly fried it to a cinder and a moment later, the passing wind blew the gray dust that used to be a moth, off into a nearby field. Such is nature.
Meanwhile, Carl scribbled rapidly on the large yellow pad, oblivious to the fact that kamakazi moths were screaming their own version of Tora! Tora! Tora!, and splattering themselves on his expensive night racing lights.

Two hours later, almost to the minute from the time he had started, Carl let out a whoop: "Hah! I got it! And it's a master-piece, lemme tell ya!"
Emma jerked upright, startled. She'd been driving in an almost hypnotic state, caught in the glare of the powerful night lights, much like a deer trapped in the beam, only this deer was behind the wheel of a giant Suburban. "Huh? What? Oh yes. Go on dear."
"Well, I'm done. Ya wanna hear it?"
"Sure. Read it to me."
"Ok, here goes:

I saw her sittin' on a horse while I drove by in my truck,
So I drank some whiskey, and figured I'd try my luck,
I crashed my truck in the river, but saved my gun and dog,
And when I saw her again, she was playing cards on a log,
... now here's the chorus, Emma ...
Oooooooooh, she was on a log, but she weren't no hog'
And all I had to offer her was whiskey and a wet dog!

She smiled at me and dealt me seven cards all in a row,
And said, 'Hey stranger, do you want to play or pay?
I knew right there that it was time for me to go,
Because she was for sure an evil woman, any night or day.
Ooooooooh, she was on a log, but she weren't no hog,
And all I had to offer her was whiskey and a wet dog.

Well, I laid my heart on the line, and hoped she wouldn't cheat,
But just in case, I cocked my gun and set it on repeat,
I flipped my cards and saw four jacks, all in a row.
By she tossed over four queens, and I watched my money go.
Oooooooohhhhhh, she was on a log, but she weren't no hog
And all I had to offer her was whiskey and a wet dog."

Emma held up a finger. "Is there more to this song, Carl? Or does she just sit there on a log and win your money and your dog?"
"Well, yeah, she does win all my money and my dog and my gun, and then disappears into the night, but I follow her to a bar where she's dancin' with a lumberjack, and I shoot them both, then get real drunk and run off with an ugly woman, leave her, rob a bank, get shot, recover, escape from jail, get caught by a jealous sheriff and he hangs me from a tree. Pretty good, huh? So whaddaya think? Do I have a winner here?"
Emma just sighed deeply.

***

Hmmm. Could it be that Carl has a winner? Or will he bomb out horribly? And what will the name of this potential hit song be? We can only wait and hum along ... Oooooooh, she was on a log, but she weren't no hog ...

 

[superbuickguy]

For the build itself, it's pretty much at useful stage so from here it out gets updates and maybe a pop-top at some point. I'll replace body panels as I find perfect, white ones (no painting). It will get a water tank and pump - that has been success on every K9 vehicle I have (there are 3 at the moment). Future as well is I'm researching 12v air conditioner compressors and I may go that route with a Leaf battery to power it.... but at this point, the engine idling is good enough to keep the doggies on ice.

 

[superbuickguy]

I'm putting this here because it will likely end up in the Suburban - however, it's goal is for the Jeep.... which probably will get all these elements - just I'll build a new one with the blueprint from this

let me explain what you're seeing... oh wait, I may have to kill you if I do

okay, so here's the deal. FBI vans need a/c and heat but both quiet and battery powered. That's what this is - it came from a FBI surveillance van, the entire van was powered by 600 ah battery bank - but it also had a full surveillance 'package' so not all the battery power was for the unit. It draws 120 ac 7.5 amps, Observation is it draws almost 800 watts when first turned on, and 1000 watts when the pump is warm.... packaging this in the Jeep will be a challenge but if I move components, I think I can make it work....

 

[java]

Ha that thing has been on CL for a long time hasn't it?!

Interested to see how it works.

 

[superbuickguy]

I hadn't seen it before - but according to him he had listed it for awhile, then stopped and figured he'd use it in his house. He posted it again because it was the easiest way to show someone he had a discussion with about what it was... and I responded not her. This works awesome in the Suburban, but whether it works in the Jeep remains to be seen - that said, it gave me some ideas on how to use a small, household one in the Jeep... and that may be tonight's update - making a house one work as a portable. The biggest issue is I don't want to cut holes in the floor for the exhaust... that said, the sawzall may be coming out.

To be honest, I'm now watching for FBI vans to come available - I can snatch them on inter-government liquidation before they hit the main sale pages. Should I get one (or more), I'll simply convert them to 4x4 because they would work very well as K9 carriers for Search and Rescue.

 

[superbuickguy]

anyway, tonight's fix - master cylinder
bleed

go to store, get correct MC

assemble again

works excellent now