The Green Weenie Man!


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My second year in college, I took a summer hiatus to California.

I knew a girl, who knew another girl, who's dad had one extra space on the ketchup-stained bench seat of his crappy silver minivan.  It looked like a lunchbox on wheels.   He was chauffeuring some students back to California for the summer and I was invited to tag along.  So, I threw my duffle bag in the van and took my place on the ketchup stain.

We drove south.  We'd crossed a few borders before hitting the dry wall of heat called Arizona.  The farther we drove the stuffier and hotter the little minivan got.  No air conditioning.  We resorted to rolling down the windows and filling up with ice at each gas station.

I bounced along in the back seat loosing pounds to excessive sweating and was reminded of summer vacations as a kid.

My parents were filled with wanderlust and each summer they planned a 2-week long road trip.  We road tripped in the luxury of a 2-door, hatch back Ford Escort with no air conditioning and only 2 seat belts in the back.  I have 2 younger brothers so there are three of us.

Yep, this was my childhood vacation mobile.  Years later my Mom tried teaching me how to drive in this thing.

My youngest brother and I shared a seat belt which meant we were always touching.  My leg on his leg!  His head on my shoulder!  Finally, his hot stinky cheese breath was in my breathing space and I'd had enough!!  My pointy little elbow jabbed him in the ribs.  Fights would break out and we'd scrap for the few inches of space.  If we kept it up, we'd hear, 

"Do you want me to pull this car over?"

With that warning ringing in our ears we'd  shove and push more discretely in the back seat.  No one ever won.

The little red Escort was bulging at the seams.  Every possible corner was stuffed with camping gear, pillows, a cooler and small backpacks containing one pair of bermuda shorts, one t-shirt, one sweatshirt, one pair of pj's and 2 pair of underwear. We were taught the value of packing light.

Only two windows rolled down in the Escort, the driver and passenger side.  That meant no windows and no air conditioning. Trapped in the back seat with my little brother stealing my space, we panted like dogs and tried sucking up any ounce of dry wind that blew our way.  Oh, and talk radio was a constant.

My mode of travel hadn't changed much since the red Escort days.  The crappy silver van didn't vie in the lap of luxury either.  Even something as essential as the speedometer wasn't working.  Who was I to complain?  I didn't even own a bike.

The miles passed by slowly, monotonously...when suddenly the van lurched forward and the wheels began to spin and burn faster.  My friend of a friend's dad was putting the peddle to the metal!  He was taking the van to new shaky speeds!  The ketchup-stained back seat began vibrating which made us all laugh, then numbed our legs and chattered our teeth!  We were speeding closer and closer to a highway patrol car, almost racing neck and neck.  With his shaded popo glasses the patrolman glanced over.  It seemed at any moment he would decide this crazy wind-blown gray-haired dad careening down the freeway was kidnapping a bunch of squealing college co-eds. Howling with laughter we waited for the flash of the police car's blue and red lights!

Faster and frenzied the dad started making circles with his fist like he's rolling down and imaginary window.  Oddly, the cop obliged.

Yelling into the oven-like wind,

"How fast am I going?  My speedometer doesn't work!"

 He had to repeat the question half a dozen times before the patrol man shouted out some speed.  They nodded at each other, rolled up their windows and we were on our way.

California was fun.  I quickly found an apartment, 3 roommates and 2 jobs down the street. I made espresso and served expensive salads to local population of high-rise suits and their secretaries.  The cafe was ran by plump confused baker named Bernadette.  She was the best boss and always happy with my work.  Then their was Crocodile Cafe.  Awful schedules, awful food, sleazy bosses and short tips... after a month and a half i quit the Croc.  I hear they're out of business now.

Life was good in L.A.  I grew up in a tiny mid-western farm town and the city was one crazy experience after another.

One night my roommates and I were jetting around downtown soaking up all the sights.  We performed the classic Chinese fire drill, I saw my first real street-walking hooker and we car danced to the Wallflowers, One Headlight...remember that song?

Stopped at a red light, a captive audience for the crossing pedestrians, we starting screaming, laughing and gagging!  The Green Weenie Man had turned full frontal nudenss!  Flashing and bouncing his green painted weenier at the waiting cars!  A wild ruckus of honking and whooping began!  We laughed so hard we cried and covered our eyes!  Eeewwwww!

Just as quickly as he'd exposed himself he ran off with a girly giggle.  And as if his shoe laces were in on the scheme, they skipped, jumped and giggled along behind his his torn up white high-top shoes.  I kept wondering if he would trip and fall flat on his green weenie.

Not sure why I'm telling this story.   Maybe just to remind myself that sex/porn addicts take many forms. Mr. Scabs behavior was abhorrent but at least he wasn't the Green Weenie Man!

Or, maybe i just wanted to give you a good laugh before the weekend.  Hilariously disgusting!

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Read the next entry here.

Ken as the Green Weenie Man.  Cover you eyes Barbie!!