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AS SEEN ON TOP GEAR
For sale on eBay: the Vampire jet car that put Richard Hammond in a coma. Slightly used condition.
(Via Autoblog and Rich Stadnik)
Most often disaster comes about not because a man underestimated the difficulty of a task, but because he overestimated his ability to handle it.
Posted by mythusmage on 2007 12 25 at 06:47 PM • permalinkIt would make short work of the Nullarbor, but I could see myself missing the turnoff for Melbourne and winding up in Sydney. Or Auckland. Or Punta Arenas.
Posted by SwinishCapitalist on 2007 12 25 at 06:56 PM • permalinkmmmm, nice big flat salt lake nearby…...
Posted by thefrollickingmole on 2007 12 25 at 07:43 PM • permalinkHow much room in the boot? No good buying a car you can’t go shopping with.
Posted by surfmaster on 2007 12 25 at 08:28 PM • permalinkno in car entertainment, no MOT, no warranty and I bet it doesn’t even have those nifty drink holder thingummies!, and just where do they expect one to hang the fluffy dice? - think I’ll pass on the Vampire,
Posted by eeniemeenie on 2007 12 25 at 08:29 PM • permalinkDetective Paco in, “A Christmas Barrel”
Part I
I had just finished the last of my special egg nog (three-parts brandy to one-part nog), and was preparing to turn in, when the phone rang. It was Sheila.
“Paco!”
“Merry Christmas, doll face. Or, at least, it was. By my watch, it’s now 1:00 am.”
“Paco, you’ve got to come over – NOW!”
There was a sense of urgency in her voice, even desperation.
“What’s the matter?”
“Mom caught a burglar and she’s got him covered with a shotgun!”
“Well, sounds like he’s the one with the problem. Why doesn’t your mother just call the police?”
Sheila whispered loudly into the phone; “He’s not just any burglar.”
“What, you mean he’s a celebrity burglar? Like Raffles, or John Dortmunder? Listen, baby, it’s pretty late, and since your mom already has the drop on him . . .”
Sheila interrupted me with an exasperated sigh, and then suddenly switched gears and spoke in a musical, alluring tone of voice.
“♫ Pa-co? ♪ Remember that skimpy, extremely sheer negligee you gave me for Christmas?”
“I didn’t give you a negligee. I gave you a speed-loader for your Bulldog .44 Special.”
“Yeah, buster, but mom doesn’t know that. Now if I were to tell her that you gave me that handkerchief-sized piece of gauze . . .”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” Women. The weaker sex. R-i-i-i-g-h-t . . .
I pulled up in front of the O’Doherty residence in the canary-yellow Packard roadster about 1:30. The cold, moist night air had coated the sides of the car with a thin layer of frost; I sat there for a moment, like a bug trapped in a lemon slushee. Through the bow window of the house, I could see a Christmas tree, and a short figure in a lavender house coat standing to one side, shot gun pointing unflinchingly at her quarry. I got out of the car and hurried to the front door.
Detective Paco in, “A Christmas Barrel”
Part II
Sheila answered the bell, throwing the front door open. Her face was in shadow, but the light on the table in the entrance shone from behind her, creating a halo effect with her blonde hair. She wore a powder-blue kimono and high-heeled blue pantoufles of the kind that I hadn’t seen since the last time I had caught Myna Loy in one of the Thin Man movies. Sheila obviously had the sort of elegance that a classy woman even takes to bed with her.
“Paco! Stop standing there with your jaw hanging open, and come inside; you’re letting the cold air in.”
I pulled myself together, and got down to business. “Your mom hasn’t shot him yet, has she? The law’s gotten so squishy, you practically have to give an intruder the opportunity to draw first, these days.”
“No, she hasn’t shot him. But I’m afraid she might have a finger spasm or something, and splatter the poor guy all over the hearth.”
“’Poor guy’?”, I said. “Sheila, the guy broke in and tried to make off with your mom’s property.”
“No, Paco, he didn’t. He was actually . . . well . . . delivering property; I mean . . . gifts.”
At that moment, a loud, though feminine, bellow issued from the parlor; “Keep ‘em up, Tubby, if you know what’s good for you!”
Sheila and I entered the parlor. There was Mrs. O’Doherty, in all her bedtime finery: housecoat, fuzzy pink slippers, and hair curlers. Completing the ensemble was an enormous single-barreled, bolt-action shotgun of antique vintage, the fear of which was keeping the intruder’s hands pointing straight at the ceiling. And the intruder? Yes. It was him. The jolly old elf, himself; though not so jolly at the moment. Rather morose, actually.
“Mrs. O’Doherty”, I said, gently. “Why don’t you put the gun down, and let’s talk about this?”
She glanced quickly over her shoulder at me. “What’s to talk about, flatfoot? I caught this lousy Red trying to break into my castle. Lookit’im!. With that long white beard, he’s the spitting image of Karl Marx!”
The portly man , with a little round belly that shook like a bowlful of jelly - not from laughter, but from the fear of its having already digested its last meal – spoke in a soft baritone. “If you please, madam, I am not a communist and I am not a burglar. I am Santa Claus, as I’ve been trying to tell you this last half hour. And so has this charming young lady.” He looked at Sheila, and, momentarily, the fear left his eyes and was replaced by something else. A “twinkle”, I believe the poem calls it. “Yes,” he said. “As this charming, extraordinarily lovely young woman, whose eyes are like starlight reflected in a placid arctic sea . . .”
“Get back on topic, Kringle”, I growled.
“Er, yes, of course. As I was saying, I’m Santa Claus.”
“Likely story, Comrade!”, Mrs O’Doherty said. Then she squinted. “Although . . .”
“I can prove it, ma’am! What is the one thing you truly wanted for Christmas? The one thing you obviously need, if I may be so bold as to say so?”
“A one-way ticket to the Happy Hotel?”, I whispered to Sheila. The nudge she gave me practically cracked a rib.
“Mrs. O’Doherty”, said Santa Claus. “The one thing you really wanted for Christmas was a pair of retro-style, rhinestone-encrusted spectacles, with the pointy frames. And here they are, right here in my bag!”
He reached slowly into his bag – the shotgun barrel tracking his movement precisely – and retrieved a brown leather case, which he opened. Resting on a bed of velvet were the spectacles heretofore described.
She put the glasses on, and saw her intruder in a whole new light, so to speak. “Well, I guess maybe you’re right”, she said, lowering her weapon. “I’m very sorry, Santa.”
Detective Paco in, “A Christmas Barrel”
Conclusion
Heaving a sigh of relief, Santa Claus mopped his forehead with a bandana, and made with the magnanimity. “Oh, it’s nothing at all, my good woman. Please don’t give it another thought. Goodness, look at the time! I really must be going. Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good riddance! Er, that is to say, to all, a good night!” With that, he ran out the front door. Shortly, we heard the jangle of sleigh bells the crack of a whip, and a voice roaring, “C’mon, boys, let’s get the hell outta Dodge!”Shiela turned to me. “Come on, Paco. I’ll make you a cup of coffee before you go.”
I followed her toward the kitchen, but she stopped abruptly in the doorway, gave me a dazzling smile, and looked up. There, hanging from the top of the doorway, was a sprig of mistletoe. I took her gently in my arms, and leaned in to give her a kiss, when I felt something cool touch the nape of my neck. For a second, I thought it might be Sheila’s fingers; then I heard a snort like a trombone player blowing the spit out of his mouthpiece. Turning slowly, I looked down the barrel of Mrs. O’Doherty’s shotgun.
“You probably want to go home and get to bed, don’t you Shamus?”
“Come to think of it”, I said, “it is rather late, and coffee might keep me awake. Good night, Sheila, and Merry Christmas.”
“Mother!” Sheila signed in resignation. “Good night, Paco, and a Merry Christmas to you, too.”
I trudged back down the driveway to the street, and got behind the wheel of the Packard. I started the engine, but noticed that I couldn’t see out of the windshield. I got out and examined the glass, and discovered a foul-smelling blob of . . . reindeer poop.
“God bless us, everyone”, I said.
So Paco drives one of these?
When hes not eyeing Sheila dressed in this.
Sheilas mum in her prime.Posted by thefrollickingmole on 2007 12 26 at 03:07 AM • permalinkpaco, the Bulldog .44 is a special favorite of mine. When women were being attacked near my ex-wife’s workplace around 35 years ago, I took her to the range and then bought her the Charter Arms Bulldog .44. Perfect weapon for a smallish woman with small hand, a willingness to use a weapon, and the ability to put up with a REALLY BIG BANG.
She put it in her purse and walked out of work with her gun in her hand inside the purse. She feared no evil because she now *was* evil.
;->=
As exes go, she’s not too bad.
Posted by JorgXMcKie on 2007 12 26 at 09:31 PM • permalink#27 JorgXMcKie: You’re right, the Bulldog is sweet. Old Paco had one, and I’d borrow it every now and then and go out and do some target shooting. It’s a fairly small handgun, but it packs a huge wallop. The only problem was, the wooden grip had a criss-cross pattern, and after a dozen rounds or so, it would start to cut into my hand. Of course, if you’re using it for “business”, you wouldn’t typically need to fire that many shots.
Thanks again, paco - terrific as usual!
Didn’t see the spectacles coming (ha!), that was a great treat for me, having had family members & teachers (sometimes they were the same person) who would LOVE such a gift!
Happy New Year!
ps - would that Bulldog be good for me? I’m 4’11, 105lbs, & getting older with arthritis in my thumbs. Help?
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Too hard to park - no reverse. Oh, reserve. Well, maybe it’s ok then…