“Triple Nipple”

In the summer after fifth grade, I went to an ice hockey camp hosted at West Point, where cadets were too busy sweating their balls/vaginas off in the sweltering heat of July to even so much as look at our young, stick-wielding crew of about thirty.

One fellow camper stands out in my mind more than any other camper from any camp that I have ever been to, and for good reason. I don’t even remember his real name, but I do remember (and will forever) what everyone at camp called him after the first hour of camp:

“Triple Nipple”

While I’m quite sure his mother and father were not so cruel as to label their son with this nickname themselves, I can’t help but wonder whether his dad silently referred to him as Triple Nipple at home.

As you can imagine, my fellow camper’s torso did not have the “normal” number of nipples. To all those who are now butthurt at the injustice of me dedicating an entire blog post to the weirdness of a child’s third nipple, I beg you to think of a situation that presents the incredibly rare (and awesome) opportunity of rhyming “triple” with “nipple” and using the combination to refer to a human being for an entire week.

I’m sure you’re wondering the location of this mysterious additional nipple. Unfortunately, this mutation was not so OCD as to place itself square in the middle of the usual two nipples, in a sort of nipple tribute to the infamous Cyclops. Instead, Triple Nipple’s third nipple was located right where the uppermost left ab is prominent on those who actually value their health enough to do a few dozen crunches a day.

This third nipple was so out-of-the-blue I couldn’t focus on the drills our counselors had us doing on the ice that entire week. I would also like to be able to attribute my failure of the swimming test requisite for swimming in the lake during the week to the nipple that consumed my every waking thought, but in reality, it was due to the fact that I was just not a very good swimmer. Perhaps a third nipple would have increased my buoyancy

This camp was also the first time I learned about how to deliver pink eye to someone by rubbing one’s bare butthole across the target’s pillow, so it’s safe to say my parents got their moneys’ worth out of sending me to hockey camp.


Grandfather-Turned-Entrpreneur Opens “Manscaping” Business in Rural Missouri

Edward Shears has wanted to be a successful entrepreneur since he was a little boy growing up in a small town in rural Missouri. Now, at age 78, Mr. Shears is the creator, owner, and sole employee of Ed’s Pubic Dreads Removal, the country’s (and possibly, the world’s) first “manscaping” business.

Image courtesy of Tinychan.org

Image courtesy of Tinychan.org

On the sign above his business, located in a metal trailer down the street from the local Arby’s, is written, “You Grow ‘Em, We Hoe ‘Em!” With such a positive attitude, Shears says he is destined for greatness. “You’d be surprised how many guys are looking for someone to take care of the shambles they call their nether-regions. We have a pretty small town here in the boonies of Missouri, but a few of my repeat-customers are bringing me a lot of dough!”

Mr. Shears went on to explain how a few of his customers go so far as to apply Rogaine to their penis-beards on a daily basis to have a reason to come in for another appointment with “The Pube Dude”- the name his customers affectionately refer to him as.

“I’ve tried really hard to foster a friendly atmosphere for guys to come sit down in one of our signature Adirondack chairs, relax, and talk to their buddies while they get a trim. It’s kind of like a salon, but for dudes and way cooler.”

Mr. Shears, when he’s not busy taming the unseen manes of the men around town, dedicates a significant portion of his time to the underprivileged children in the area- which, if you ever get the chance to visit rural Missouri, is almost every single one of them.

“I offer an after-school program for the eighth graders here in town- you can never get them started too young! We meet for an hour after school every Tuesday and discuss proper scissor handling and the safest ways to use a razor blade.”

When asked about the controversy surrounding his program for kids, titled, “Trimmings for Tots”, Mr. Shears appeared to become rather agitated.

“Listen here, you rapscallion, you city-boys just don’t understand us Southerners. I’ve collected over two thousand pounds of pubic hair and have made enough pillows to provide several great nights’ sleep for a few hundred Zimbabweans. How is that something to criticize? I’m a godd**n visionary. I don’t allow the parents into our Tots program because they’re not Tots! How hard is it to understand that?”

Shears claims he first recognized the demand for such a business when he discovered a small family of chipmunks nesting in his own pubic hair.

“Yup, there were about seven of ’em in there, nesting for the winter. At first, I was pissed, but then I realized that it was a great opportunity to really help out a family in need- even though they’re not real people!”

Ed’s Pubic Dreads Removal offers a number of different styling options, including the self-explanatory “checkerboard”, the classic “landing strip”, the “soul patch” and even something called the “80’s Sasquatch”- all available at very reasonable prices.


The 2007 Helen Keller Middle School Food Fight

One of the most exciting moments of my life happened just a few weeks before my classmates and I were set to graduate the eighth grade and head off to high school. What better way to prove our maturity than a full-scale food fight?

I still get tingly all over when I picture throwing that first plate of pasta. Sometimes I even make the arm motion (in slow-motion, of course) and the utterly satisfying “blooorrrgghhhppp” sound that sauce-soaked pasta makes when striking a seventh grader directly in the ‘A’ on the middle of their shirt from the GAP.15407

A kid on my bus once tried to convince me that it stands for, “Gangstas And Pimps.”

So here I am, sitting in the cafeteria at Helen Keller Middle School, and enjoying the plain, unbuttered bagel I bought with quarters I had found on the ground earlier. Out of nowhere, shouting erupts from the other end of the cafeteria.

Naturally, the entire population of the cafeteria immediately shut their mouths and whipped their heads around to see who was about to get reamed out by the “cafeteria police”: a frail, 5’5″ woman in her thirties who was quick on the draw and handed out lunch suspensions like it was her job (it was her job.)

Now, not many people witnessed the “shot heard ’round the world” so to speak. The first casualty came in the form of a ketchup packet slammed into the table by the palm of a student, whom we shall call “A.” His efforts were rewarded when the ketchup launched at terminal velocity and splattered the shirt of a fellow student at the table, who, not surprisingly, did not take kindly to it.

The ketchup victim, who will hence be referred to as, “T” proceeded to, in front of roughly one hundred and twenty silent students and a few entertained faculty, stand up and pour what remained of his chocolate milk directly onto A’s head.

Oooohhh boy, I thought to myself. These kids are really in for it.

As we anxiously awaited the reprimand that was sure to come, a good friend of mine, who was sitting directly across the table from me, stood up, threw his hands in the air, and yelled at the top of his lungs, “FOOOOODDD FIIIIGGHHTTTT!!!!!”

It was something out of a movie- and not some funny coming-of-age movie. This cafeteria went from being dead calm to the D-day beach landing in milliseconds. We were less than ten minutes into our lunch period, which meant everyone had near-maximum ammunition.

And boy, did the ammunition fly.

The number of casualties was at or near 100% of the people in that cafeteria. Pasta day meant that sauce was in play, and let me tell you something: we sauced that cafeteria like bolognese was going out of style.

A side note: One of my good friends had bought a can of Snapple for the first time that day, and had been looking forward to it for months. It was grape-flavored, and still about eighty percent full when I decided that launching this projectile at a friend across the table was my best option.

The juice flew, and EVERYONE was scrambling around for something else to throw, and there was rampant screaming- both screams of joy and primal fear of catching a face-full of pasta or Go-Gurt.

The fight could have gone on for twenty seconds or twenty minutes- I was caught up in the moment and had no sense of time or anything else, really. I was a pasta-throwing windmill. It’s really a shame we don’t have the technology to harness the electricity my skinny arms generated. We could have powered a lightbulb for about two whole seconds.

There are a few moments in particular that stick out in my mind, and most likely will still bring a smile to my face on my deathbed:

– I looked across the cafeteria and saw a fellow student hiding underneath the table, sobbing uncontrollably. I sincerely hope the sheer violence of those saucy strands of spaghetti flying through the air don’t still haunt her dreams

-At one point, I saw one of my good friends in the chokehold of one of the gigantic teacher’s aids. One of my other friends swears he saw Matt lifted completely off the ground, pudding cups clenched tightly in both of his flailing hands

– The kids over at the allergic-to-peanuts table near the front of the cafeteria were cowering underneath their peanut-free table, probably praying they wouldn’t be contacted by their version of kryptonite (peanutite?)

I also remember the aftermath with perfect clarity.

When the entire cafeteria was out of ammunition, and as pasta was sliding down the slacks of dozens of students, silence fell over the battleground. A bolognese-sauce-thick tension could be seen on every face as we students waited for the axe to fall.

When the metal doors that constituted the entrance to the cafeteria opened and the principal walked in, all eyes turned to her. The seething anger radiating through her pants suit heated up the cafeteria quite nicely.

The principal walked up to one of the janitors and asked him a question- I assume inquiring about who was responsible for this debacle. The janitor scanned the room, pointed out Ketchup Boy and Chocolate Milk Man, and then turned towards my lunch table.

My stomach flipped as the janitor pointed at my friend who had actually screamed the fatal words that sent our class into a food-throwing frenzy, and then made eye contact with me. In those few nanoseconds, I put every ounce of effort I had into begging with this janitor telepathically to not rat me out.

It seems as though my pasta-throwing enthusiasm did not rub off on the janitor, because he pointed me out to the principal.

I was resigned to my fate as a criminal, and decided right then and there to face my accusers like the revolutionary I was.

Before heading to the principal’s office to discuss the terms of my punishment, the principal had a nice little chat with our (very) disappointing class.

“You should know better, blah blah blah I’m fairly certain you don’t act this way at home, blah blah blah.”

And then she gave us what I can only describe as the worst ultimatum you could possibly offer a bunch of sauce-soaked eighth graders just a few weeks away from graduation:

“Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to pass around a piece of paper to everyone, and I would like you to write down which one you are going to miss: either walking at graduation, or the annual class trip to Six Flags.”

Hmm, let’s think about this for a second. Miss out on getting dressed up, taking dozens of annoying photos and sitting in a hot gymnasium for hours to receive a piece of paper, or miss out on a glorious day at Six Flags. Sweet roller coasters or not-so-sweet swamp-ass?

Needless to say, we ended up going to Six Flags, and it was indeed glorious. We also ended up walking at graduation, which was a bit of a shocker! It was almost as if the principal didn’t think about all the parents that might have been a little upset about not having any pictures of their kids graduating from middle school

My punishment for my role in the ordeal was missing out on a class field trip in order to clean up the entire school with the other degenerates. We cleaned pretty much nothing and just pissed off the poor teachers that were forced to supervise us.

The Great Helen Keller Food Fight Massacre of 2007 was a resounding success, and I am absolutely honored to forever call my classmates my comrades.

I would also take twenty more in-school detentions for a chance to do it again.


Vote ‘No’ on Salt Bagels

This is the sort of question I ask myself while standing in the line for a bacon, egg, and cheese the morning after a long night. The racks of various kinds of bagels astounds me every time, although the cinnamon-raisin bagel is what really keeps me up at night.

If “Bagel Roulette” were a real game show, the raisin bagel would be the bullet. This metaphor makes sense, because raisins are really just shriveled-up, discolored bullets. It also makes sense because raisins can kill you just as quickly as a bullet can, if you were to consume a large quantity of raisins and began choking with no one around to save you.

If you’re not over the age of sixty, you have absolutely no business buying anything with raisins in it. This is the first law I will enact as Emperor of the entire world.

While raisin bagels certainly raise a few eyebrows, the consumer I really want to strap to a water-boarding table in Guantanamo is the buyer of the salt bagel. The thought process of someone who buys a salt bagel at ANY point in their life is worthy of an extremely unnecessary level of analysis, and might provide us with some answers to questions we’ve been asking since the beginning of time, such as:

“Why do we exist?”

“Do these pants make me look fat?”

“Why did Breaking Bad have to end?” And,

“Why should I vote against Salt Y. Bagels in the upcoming election?”

Let me tell you something, consumer of salt bagels: I’m onto you. You may be fooling the rest of the people in line at Einstein’s Bagels, but I’m the revolutionary off to the side, shaking my head at your ludicrous purchase.

You see, while the other bagel aficionados are lulled into oblivion by the warmth seeping out of the bagel ovens, I am over in the freezer, crouched behind the strawberry lemonades that nobody ever buys, watching your every move. While the others have been fooled into thinking you’re just a fellow bagel-lover with a penchant for salt, I observe you with absolute clarity from my vantage point among the various flavored cream cheese spreads.

After years of observation in the field and getting kicked out of various bagel-selling establishments, I have come to the conclusion that has rocked my bagel-shaped world, and will rock yours too. If you see someone buying a salt bagel, know this (you may want to sit down):

They’re really just buying a pretzel.

I know what you’re thinking: “But Adam, won’t this declaration and ousting of the salt bagel people make you a target for retribution?”

Well, concerned reader of my blog, yes, it will. Fortunately for you and the rest of the world, I am not afraid to do this kind of investigative journalism for the sake of mankind and bagels everywhere. I know this has angered a great many buyers of salt bagels, but people like me and Edward Snowden have to take this kind of risk to keep you sheeple informed of what’s really going on.

As a side-note, if any readers are currently living in Russia and can offer me some sort of asylum, that would be greatly appreciated. There are hundreds of protestors outside my window, shaking salt-shakers and demanding my head on a salted stick. It looks as though they’re running out of salt bagels to keep them relatively calm.

God save the plain bagel.


“Hi Mom, I’m a Fratstar Now” Episode One

Here’s a video I put together over the weekend with my friend Connor. It’s an “interview” with a Fratstar that is not your average interview.


“Fratstar: A Lifestyle”

So, here I am, shamelessly selling myself online. This is a video I made in roughly an hour today, and I’m beginning to really like the idea of getting into video.

It explains what it takes to be a “Fratstar” in a VERY sarcastic way. For the record, I am in a fraternity, and this is not how I act every day of my life.

Please let me know what you think in the comments! I could really use the feedback to see what “works” and what doesn’t. Also, if you have any requests, let me know!

Here’s a dancing Kirby for your troubles: (>’ u ‘)> <( ‘ _ ‘ )> <(‘ u'<)

Copy and paste this link for a taste:

Grab Me a Cola, I Have Ebola!

Actually, I don’t. And according to most films and television shows, having made this joke almost guarantees that I will get the Ebola virus. If this does happen, keep an eye out for my next blog post, titled, “Yeah, It Happened.”

So, what’s the deal with Ebola and what other words rhyme with it? Well, off the top of my head, Lola from the song “American Pie”, ‘Hola!’ from the Spanish dialect, NOLA (New Orleans, LA) and rolla’, which is the second word in one of my favorite phrases: “High rolla’.”

Ebola is no joke, so stop laughing. Have some respect for Ebola, otherwise Ebola will find you, and Ebola will kill you (probably). At the very least, Ebola will call you up several weeks after your birthday every year, and wish you a (very) belated happy birthday, making you depressed that no one ever remembers your birthday until you just decide to give up and go get a nice dose of Ebola to hurry death along.

Oprah is blessed to have enough Ebola to share with your sorry ass.

Oprah is blessed to have enough Ebola to share with your sorry ass.

Ebola is an infectious disease characterized by fever and internal bleeding, which sounds a whole lot like the what happens to me when I talk to women.

Can you imagine if Ebola was caused by nervousness in men trying to talk to women? The entire world’s straight male population would be infected in a matter of hours. The only survivors would be gays and all the women, which would result in a fantastically-decorated, well-dressed world for a few decades before the entire human race died out due to lack of sexual intercourse between the survivors, or femi-Nazis murdering everyone else. Now THERE’S a movie pitch I can get behind.

What an odd phrase, “to get behind something.” How exactly are you “getting behind” whatever it is you say you’re getting behind? Sure, you can “get behind” a friendly game of Find the Vegan, but are you actually putting in any sort of effort to find the vegan??

Here’s something I can get behind: “Premature Ecatulation.”

No, I did not spell ‘ejaculation’ wrong. I meant to replace ‘jac’ with ‘cat’ because what I’m talking about here is not the embarrassing launching of bodily fluids at an inopportune time, but rather, the mistaken insertion (ha! Sex jokes are easy. Whoa, there’s another one! I need to stop. Damn, there’s another one) of a picture, video, or gif of a cat doing something cool.


I Googled the definition of ‘ejaculate’ to see if I could make some sort of crude joke, and Google did not disappoint. So, here’s your fun, informational fact definition for the day:

Ejaculate: To say something quickly and suddenly.

If that isn’t the perfect alternative definition of a sexual term I’ve ever read, I will lose all faith in the humor of the people that decide what words mean. Take this sentence, for example:

“Ohmyword,” Gerald ejaculated, “I’m afraid I’ve ejaculated!”

The above sentence makes perfect sense, and is also hilarious, which is why I love the English language.

But enough about ejaculate and its many uses in the English language, let’s get back to the cats- more specifically, premature ecatulation.

Hitler was afraid of cats and probably hopefully had Ebola. 

Area Teen’s First Hibachi Experience: “F****n’ Sweet”

Whether he’s knocking over elderly citizens’ recycling bins or tearing up the local 7-11’s parking lot, Kleindale’s favorite amateur Razor scooter rider, Richard Leopard, has a knack for drawing a crowd. Last month, it was that sweet bunny hop over the curb at Kohl’s, but not it appears as though Leopard is getting a taste for fine dining.

scooter-douche-2A recent picture of R. Leopard and his scooter

An anonymous tip from a Kleindale citizen led our reporters to Fud Throhn Atchu, Kleindale’s only hibachi restaurant, where Richard was leaving after his first encounter with the dining novelty. In search of what makes people pay to have their food thrown at them, we asked Leopard what he thought of his experience:

“Yeah, that Tamagotchi s**t was pretty good,” Leopard told reporters at the scene. “Flipping chicken and some fried noodles into peoples’ mouths? That ish was TIGHT. I was a little thrown off by all the Asian dudes, though. They all knew karate with those big-ass knives and that was not chill.”

When asked which main course he ordered, Richard told us he asked for the vegetable dinner, but then took a large portion of his friend’s filet mignon.

“No way I’m paying for the good stuff,” Leopard stated. His friend, a Mr. Stanley Lilbitch, had this to say:

“I don’t usually have a problem with Dick here taking my food,” Stanley explained, “I usually get the leftovers from the girls he gets at the scooter competitions, so I will gladly sacrifice what was an excellent piece of filet mignon.”

When asked what his favorite part of the hibachi experience was, Leopard replied, “Ooh, dude! That flaming onion volcano bull***t fo’ shizzle.”

Our reporters state that the distinct smell of sake lingered in the air for several minutes after Dick Leopard rode the latest Razor scooter into the sunset.

I Need to Get JUICED, Bro

I am not shocked at all that we haven’t been openly contacted by life from other planets yet, and remain convinced that we will not be at any point in the future. If not because of our insatiable desire to delve into the lives of human garbage named Snookie and Kim Kardashian, then it must be due to the fact that the human race has a number of incredibly weird habits.

For one, we love to do this really weird thing where we spend nearly all of our precious time sitting in office chairs and complaining about sitting in said chairs in order to get a bunch of pieces of paper to trade for stuff we don’t need. The most fucked up part is that we usually don’t even get to see the pieces of paper! I would be all for this strange addiction if I could pile it all up and roll around in it for a large portion of my day, but that privilege seems to be reserved for strippers and Huell from Breaking Bad.

If you haven’t realized by now that I’m talking about money, then stop reading this and go shove a metal fork in a light socket.

Money is just one of our countless strange addictions. Horrible reality TV shows, hamburgers that may or may not be actual hamburgers, butts and selfies are a few others that currently plague society. Oh, and drugs, of course. Out of all of these, drugs make the most sense. It is fairly easy to understand (both scientifically and simply from common sense) why people get addicted to drugs.

While actual drugs are no laughing matter, the latest “drug” that we’ve become dangerously addicted to is absolutely hilarious.

I am talking, of course, about getting juiced. No, no, not steroids. I think we’ve done a pretty good job of making fun of steroid users (small nutsacks, and/or half nutsacks. Looking at you, Lance) to the point where steroid abuse isn’t that huge of a problem anymore. No, I’m not talking about getting ourselves juiced- I’m talking about getting our smartphones juiced.

Take a look around you, right now. Is there a charger in sight? Is your phone in the middle of getting real intimate with your charger? I’m talking full insertion here.

If you’re on a train, someone is getting juiced. If you’re in a car, chances are high that someone either has a USB car charger plugged in, or is anxiously checking their battery percentage every few seconds to try to calculate how long it will be before they can get some juice.

This behavior sickens me. I’m certain that if someone was in the middle of a fantastic group chat discussing that night’s big plans, and their phone was getting juiced, they wouldn’t give that outlet up for someone who needed it to charge their AIDS medication.

Does AIDS medication need a charge every now and again? Not to my knowledge, but it’s a metaphor and this is MY blog, so shut up.

One of my good friends sunk to a new low the other night at a bar. We were there with quite a few friends, and I hadn’t seen him in a while. I needed to go to the bathroom to adjust a massive wedgie I was trying to deal with, and I saw him in the coatroom when I walked past.

“Dude, what are you doing in here?” I asked, puzzled at why he was on his knees and had his head buried in other people’s coats.

His head whipped around and his eyes darted up, scaring the bejeezus out of me. He looked like some sort of crazed crack baby. “I gotta get juiced man,” he said nervously. I continued to be freaked out, due to his crazy eyes and constantly moving hands. “I need some juice, you know?”

“No, I don’t know. What the fuck are you doing in here?”

“Well, I thought I could find some juice in here, ya know? There are usually outlets in the coatroom, right? So, I figured I’d come in here and grab some juice so I can keep talking to this girl.”

“Have you lost your goddamn mind? If someone sees you in here, they’re going to think you’re stealing peoples’ shit.”

“Nah, nah,” he shook his head furiously. “I just need some JUICE, man. I’m not trying to steal anything. I just really need some JUICE,” he started yelling as he grabbed ahold of my collar. “I NEED SOME FUCKING JUICE, MAN, WHERE IS THE JUICE?!”

“Chill, man!” I yelled, breaking his hold on my shirt. “I saw an outlet next to the bar, just go ask the bartender.”

He started whimpering like an injured puppy, cradling his phone as he sprinted to the bar. I think he’d be better off if he had an actual drug problem.*

*Two things:

1. This may seem bad, but in no way would he be better off as an alcoholic.

2. None of that story is real. I’m just tired and pissed off at people who keep asking me for an iPhone charger to plug into my car. I have an Android, first of all, so suck on that. Second, I need the juice myself, and have no qualms about shoving you out of my moving vehicle to keep myself juiced.

Juice out.

“I Wanna Go Fast”

Many of you will recognize this quote from the fairly hilarious “Talladega Nights” starring one of my favorite people, Will Ferrell.

Others will simply gloss over the fact that it’s a movie quote, and nod their heads in agreement with the statement; maybe mime a second-to-third shift or two. Gearheads all have one thing in common: gears are always turning in their heads. This makes a great deal of sense, considering the term “gearhead.”

What defines a gearhead? Is it the love for taking something apart and putting it back together? I’ll admit it, I’ve always loved taking things apart, but don’t have the best track record in terms of putting them back together.

Is it the love for speed? I think it is. From almost day one, I’ve been finding different ways to put myself in harm’s way and go as fast as possible. The first time I ever rode a dirtbike, I almost pissed myself laughing like a maniac as I ripped around on my friend’s lawn.

 What a rush it is. There’s something truly intoxicating about “syncing up” with a car, bike, or anything else that gets you moving faster than your own two feet can. Knowing exactly what you want the car to do is something that a lot of people (my girlfriend, parents, and a number of friends) just can’t even begin to fathom. My fellow gearheads know what I’m talking about, and we don’t mind one bit that a lot of you don’t get it. It leaves more room for us on the road.


This is my uncle’s 1971 Plymouth Barracuda. This ‘Sassy Grass Green’ monster is what got me into cars. How could it not? The ’70’s were a great time for lovers of American muscle, and this ‘Cuda is one damn fine example. 


Look at that rear end. I would take this one over Kim Kardashian’s any day of the week and have no regrets whatsoever. It may cost just as much as what I’m sure are the absurdly high costs to maintain that talentless booty, but I would never grow tired of looking at this gorgeous green machine. 

My fondest memory of this car is when my family went over to my uncle’s house for a party in the summer. I was around eight, and I was antsy to get to their house. I knew this magnificent beast lurked under a tarp in the garage, and I wanted to see it. I would go into the garage alone when we went over just so I could stand there and look at it. I was obsessed. Here was a machine that actually frightened me. I felt like it would throw off the tarp and swallow me whole if I wasn’t careful. I was in love.

On this particularly beautiful, summer day, I was presented with the opportunity of my short lifetime. My uncle was going to take me, my cousin and my dad out for a little spin. Let me offer you some advice: if someone with a nice car offers to take you out for a “little spin,” you are not going to be cruising around at grandmother speeds.

With the top down, sitting in the back of this absolute badass almost left me with a dislocated jaw from smiling too much. We hadn’t even left the driveway and I was giddy.

We got out onto the neighborhood drive, rumbling around and snapping necks, I’m sure. We weren’t going very fast, but the 318 V8 with a four-barrel carb, cam and headers was shaking my teeth loose. I occasionally glanced over at my cousin and tried to say something like, “This is the best thing ever!” but all he could see was my mouth moving.

And then my uncle opened it up. Holy s**t. I almost pooped my Buzz Lightyear underwear right then and there. I was planted in that back seat, holding on for dear life. We went under a bridge flat-out in second gear and I was convinced I was going to be deaf for the rest of my life.

I didn’t mind one bit.

I don’t know what it is about gearheads and floating the middle finger to high schools, but apparently it doesn’t disappear with age. We rolled up to my dad and uncle’s old high school, and lined up just over one of the speed bumps. I didn’t really know exactly what was going on, but I didn’t mind. We came to a stop, and I looked around to see why.

That’s when my uncle revved it up, dropped the clutch, stepped on the brake, and I found myself in the midst of my first burnout. “Why is there all this smoke around us??” I wondered, “Why is the engine revving but we’re not moving?” I didn’t fully understand what a burnout was until a few years later, but I knew that I liked them, whatever they were.

It was also a few years until I understood how much of his blood, sweat, and (possibly a great deal of) tears into this car.

“When I first saw the car, it had been stored in a barn for some time. The seats were shot, the top was gone. The floors and trunk were rotted through. The trunk was stuck shut. When I finally got it opened there were six bags of cement that had solidified and the floors were rotted. All four tires were dry rotted.”


Doesn’t look too bad in the pictures, does it? I can’t really fathom how many hours went into restoring the car to the glory it was in when it was sadly sold a few years ago, but as a lot of gearheads will understand, “The body was good and straight, and the motor ran.” I have a tremendous amount of respect for anyone that can tackle a project like this, and when you consider my uncle did all the work himself minus the paint, you realize how important cars are to us.

What’s the next project he’ll take on? Well, he now has a V8-swapped Wrangler that I’ve ridden in and displayed my s**t-eating grin in, but my uncle thinks “Something like an old pick-up truck might be fun.” If his track record is anything to go by, the pick-up will be a great deal of fun to drive down the street and piss off the neighbors.

I dream of the day I have my own garage, a full toolbox, and a project to wrench on. Until that day comes, I’ll have to content myself with perusing Internet forums and daydreaming about cruising in the ‘Cuda.