The Green Studebakker and the Great Miami Hurricane Caper of 1947

“By crackulous! You young punks listen up good! You don’t know nothin’ by crackie (Pronounced cray-kye!) . Filthy young hippies! (Pronounced Hip-eyes). With your dirty minds! You young people are too sexy! Now listen up! It was the great winter ❄️ of ‘46 by Crackamundo!”

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The old man 👴 loaned (past sideways participle of lean) back in his rocking chair.

“92 inches of Schnee, 52 degrees below zero in Philadelphia. My pap (Pronounced pap-wise papification) purchased me a brand spankin’ new 1946 Studebaker Commander. Sure was a fine lookin’ Auto-Mobile by crack-wise crackification! I drove her all the way down to the University of Miami with nary a scratch and only one dangling modifier.”

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”I remember that drive well! I stopped at every Barbeque joint, reeferstick hut and whorehouse from Philly to Tampa. I found me the dirtiest, smelliest, fattest, oldest, ugliest, yummiest whores. Ah the smell of it, by Kraken!”

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”Well I found me a nice apartment rented to me by one of them Cuban broads. There was a 20 space covered garage (Pronounced gah-rhaaaaj) I got space number 20 at the far end. It was January 20 of 19 aught 47. That night I heard on my radio 📻 that a huge Hurricane was a comin’ I remember me a few back in my Army Air Corps Training back in 19 aught 42. By Quraquie!”

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”Well I was at class when the storm hit. They warned people to get their cars out of the garage but I plum forgot. When I got back to my apartment the entire garage was collapsed and all the cars 🚗 destroyed excepting for slot number 20. Not a scratch on my Studebaker. Them bastards never forgave me. Oh well 😔 time to change my diaperous bowel genie 🧞‍♂️!”

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Phrases I never want to hear again

  1. Clapback – WTAF does this even mean? It’s pretentious Millennial crap. STFU already. No-one cares.
    shallow focus photography of girl clapping
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  2. Orientate – As in ‘orientate your compass’. NO, MORONS it’s orient.
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  3. Hydrate – The proper phrase is ‘drink water’, DUMMY.
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  4. Do you get it? – As in Angry Online Guy on Queddit trying to show everyone that you somehow don’t understand the gibberish he driveled, when in fact… You don’t agree with the DUMMY
  5. Walk off – This is not a baseball expression. It probably originated with some DUMMY Red Sox fan, who being from Boston are the dumbest people in the universe. Everything is a walk-off. A walk-off homerun, a walk-off single. A walk off walk. A walk-off walk-off. SHUT UP, STUPID!
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  6. Reps – THIS ONLY APPLIES TO WEIGHTLIFTING! FOOTBALL PLAYERS DO NOT GET REPS IN! It is for repetitions in a set of a weightlifting exercise only, DOPES!
    fitness power man person
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  7. Quoogle™®© Something – To Quoogle something means to put in a very plain, understandable search team and get:
    1. Some kind of site selling you some crap you don’t want.
    2. Crap sponsored by Quoogle.
    3. The opposite of what you put in, as in “qArianne Grande sucks’ and you get back: a. ‘Buy tickets for qArianne Grande’ b. ‘qArianne Grande is the best.’ c. ‘qArianne Grande’s critics suck – an exposé’.
    4. Absolutely wrong tech/engineering response: I enter as a search term > Something about the KMP Algorithm. I get back: ‘Giraffes of the Serengeti’
      pattern formation wild animals south africa
      Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
  8. ‘New’ – as in ‘I was in Operation Desert Storm’ the shoosting started and ‘it was new’ I know this goes back a long way, but I respect you as a fellow veteran, so I will put this gently: ‘SHUT UP, YOU PRETENTIOUS TWAT WITH YOUR WAR STORIES!’ a. There were women, children and elderly people in the war zone that had it way worse than any of us ever did. b. Sorry to bruise your ego, but even Iraq wasn’t the first time I had a gun pointed in my face, Ringo.

POSTSCRIPT:

  1. I’m listening to Alice’s Restaurant right now, by Arlo Guthrie. I love Arlo. If you don’t then, F*&^ OFF! And also to your opinion: YAWN
  2. My daughter absconded with my 1st Cav Patch. All of my Cav stuff belongs to her. She stole all of my bullshit Army medals and ribbons too.

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  3. I USE CAPS BECAUSE I FEEL LIKE USING CAPS. This is you: Stop using caps, you big sexy brute! Me: YAWN

Peace be the Botendaddy

Harry The Wheelchair Hippie

August, 1972. Friday Shabbat Services.

It was a little Synagogue in North Eastern Queens. One of many in the area.    

The City

He was in a wheelchair. He had been there every week for a month. Every week, he drooled, pathetically, asking her if they could go to the deli together after Saturday morning services and get a bagel. She always laughed and said no. 

She sat with her family in a rear pew. They were making an attempt to try to be more Jewish. Provide some support for the dynamic young rabbi from Las Vegas, of all places. 

It was mostly dull. She read the announcements and the temple calendar. What made it fun was people watching. Who was with who. Who showed up and who didn’t.

The wheelchair hippie, as they called him, would roll behind the last pew and transfer himself into the end seat. And they would talk. He was 29, she was 24. 

He had long black hair, a beard and a moustache. He was an absolute mess. He looked like a very large Rasputin. She couldn’t tell if he was fat or thin. His face was strong, but he wore baggy clothes mostly to hide his diaper, he said. Yuck. In order to speak, he had to unscrew an enormous orthodontic brace on his mouth. 

She liked the hippie, even though he was disgusting. He talked about being in some kind of hospital, rehab he said. Probably a junkie who got hit by a car, her dad said. Her parents hated him. Harry the Hairy hippie, they called him.

She was not married. No boyfriend. She was zaftig. Brown hair, brown eyes. The good men were already snapped up. She worked in the City. Bus, first, then the 7 train during the week. Then weekend services at Temple, where she was inevitably stuck with Harry, the crippled wheelchair bum. Embarrassing. How could she meet a nice young man with this carnival sideshow freak around?

He would ask for her number, while wiping his drool from his mouth. What in the hell happened to him?

He was highly intelligent. He spoke of a girl in Philadelphia who didn’t follow him to Baltimore and broke his heart. Maybe he became a junkie after that? 

Did he fall off a subway platform? Was he hit by a bus? Beaten by dope dealers? Who knows. He knew his prayers though, barely intelligible as they were.  

He rambled on abouthow he missed working out and running. It seemed ludicrous. He spoke about some studies at some University somewhere. It made no sense. He talked about traveling around Asia. 

She would chat about Harry at home. Her parents would chafe. They called him a self-inflicted wound. It was funny.

They were really worried that their daughter would end up with Harry the shitty wheelchair bum? She scoffed in her mind.

Every week at Temple he would hit on her. Tell her she was beautiful. How he missed Jewish girls and their unique beauty. He said he wanted to ask her out, but he could barely walk or talk and he couldn’t drive. Maybe they could go to the deli one morning and get a bagel with lox cream cheese spread. She always brushed him off. 

He spoke about how beautiful she was. Some mystical tripe about dreaming her before he ever met her. He talked about being in some strange land, sleeping under the Southern Cross, and how he imagined a girl just like her.

It was romantic, but annoying. Girls don’t dream of being hit on by Quasimodo.

The end came during Friday services at Kol Nidre. 

He held her hand for just a moment. It was strange, as if he desperately needed some human connection, as if it were a lifeline, and her parents saw him grasp her hand.

After services, outside, her parents confronted him in the dark in the Temple  driveway. 

Her dad was an imposing man, over six feet. He was a dentist. He had been a dentist in World War II and the Korean War. He was proud of his service.  

“Son, I don’t know how you got like this, but you look like shit. You probably were hooked on drugs and you screwed up your life. It’s sad. But from now on find somewhere else to sit. We aren’t your fucking family and my daughter isn’t going to associate with a pathetic hippie bum.”  

Said her dad, pointing his finger as he towered over the crippled hippie.  

“Maybe when you get out of your little rehab, you can repair your life. Move back in with your family.” 

Said her mom.  

She drew back, remembering him saying that he didn’t have a family and he lived alone somewhere upstate in a big empty house that he hadn’t seen in years. Probably a cock and bull story. Junkies were notorious liars.

“I’m sorry. I hope you’ll be OK.”  

She said, avoiding tortuous eye contact.

Harry hung his head. He muttered some apology. Probably long practiced from years of disappointing people.

The rabbi raced over. He looked very hurt. “What is hurtful to yourself, do not do to your fellow human being. That is the entire Torah!”

He shouted at her family.

“Shame on you!”

Yelled at by the Rabbi on Yom Kippur. Not a good scene.

They saw Harry again on Saturday, he sat alone in his wheelchair on the far side of the temple, he avoided eye contact and he turned his head… and then, the next week, he was gone. 

A month went by. Then a couple more weeks. She wondered what happened to him. She rode the 7 train, reading her book. Bored to death, but thinking of the sad, disgusting young man in the wheelchair. 

Veterans Day week, the JWV had their annual to-do where they called up some bored Jewish active duty soldier or officer and recited his exploits. 

The rabbi summoned up a tall attractive strong black-haired young man. He was clean shaven, wearing khakis and an Army Sweater covered with ribbons and badges. 

“Look, a caduceus!” Said her dad, all excited. 

The rabbi introduced the handsome young doctor who waddled up on wooden crutches. 

Her face fell when she realized who it was. Harry the wheelchair hippie… and she had crushed his soul… when he had desperately, hopelessly loved her. 

“Everyone, this young fellow, Captain Harry Levi, was hiding in the back since July. He is an Army trauma surgeon who was sent to rehabilitate at the LaGuardia VA hospital. His helicopter was shot down in Vietnam in June while he was on his second tour. Look, it’s like a revival! Harry can walk again! Hallelujah! Heal! See Rabbis can do it too! By the by, Harry is a graduate of the University of Pennsylvania, for you Philly Skimmers here and he went to Johns Hopkins in Baltimore to study medicine. What a mensch!” 

Said the rabbi.  

She stared straight ahead, furious at her parents. Angrier at herself. What awful tricks God plays on us when we have shameless vanity and show cruelty to the unfortunate.

A nice single Jewish Doctor. Every Jewish girl’s dream, ruined.

A badly wounded Veteran and they had all laughed at him, mocked him, shit on him. Her dad looked sick and he began to tear up. He had humiliated a fellow veteran and everyone knew it.

She got up from her seat. 

“Nice work, Mom and Dad, nice work! We are all wonderful people.“

She said bitterly.  

She walked down the aisle and she stood in front of the entire Saturday morning Shabbat congregation. She faced Harry and she gave him a gentle hug.  

“Harry, I’m Rachel. Let’s go get that bagel.”  

“I love you, Rachel.”  

He said very clearly.

And they walked out into the winds of Long Island Sound to the little deli.