This is Bob Trout’s story and not mine, so I’ll do my best to transcribe:
When we came back from Vietnam, the protesters were waiting for us. It wasn’t just yelling and a little spitting, it was a lot of throwing stuff. We had nowhere to go and no way around it. And these cabbies, all black guys, just came in and rescued us. They were taking bottles and shit. And they just rolled on in and took the guys to the strip clubs and bars and whorehouses, wherever they needed to go, without any complaint and at some real personal risk. I want everyone to know about that.
And as usual, we get a different perspective on everything from Mr. Trout.
I have had a Zazzle Store for quite a while and never really promoted it, but I have a total of TWO products.
1. The “Bob is Love” U.S. postal stamps, in a variety of denominations, featuring a touching and artistical black & white photo of Mr. Bob Trout, my best friend and an icon of the greater Newport-Mesa area:
2. The tiresome “nerd freedom” Software is Speech shirt, featuring said slogan on the front and what I am pretty sure is the First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America in binary on the back. You see, it’s cool because it’s nerdy and also because you can stand up for an abstract idea of freedom without any risk simply by purchasing an inexpensive consumer item:
I got one of those calls. A young kid said “Sir, if you are unwilling to pay the amount owed, you’ll have to talk to Mr. James.”
“Listen to me for a second, kid. You work for Mr. James, and he drives a Porsche, and you want to park your Toyota Tacoma next to his Porsche, and you’re an office boy with aspirations, and you believe that this is how it works. I don’t think you understand.
“I have worked at an establishment similar to yours. I was a skip tracer, you probably know the phrase. A skip tracer is an alcoholic murderer who has done hard time, and learned hard things during the hard time. Someone who really does not give a shit. I think you understand.
“And I will find you, because that is what skip tracers do, and I will be waiting in the parking lot with a baseball bat to smash the windows out of your fucking Toyota Tacoma and then smash your fucking skull in and smash Mr. James’ face in as well, if you ever fucking call me again. I think you understand.”
So Bob and his dog Stain got run over by a garbage truck today. Literally, like in a MAD Magazine cartoon.
I found this out because I was reading in the patio when my phone said “DING” and the message was a Facebook update. A few of my friends I have set to text me when they update. Bob’s one of them. His update was, basically: “Stain and I hit by truck. No phone. At home. Bloody mess. HALP”
I zipped over there to find them both bloody and shocked. A garbage truck had essentially parked on Stain’s front paws and he was licking them mournfully. Bob was a bit of a scratch and dent himself. The kitchen looked, as Bob put it, “like Charlie Manson came over for lunch.”
So far, so good. Remains to be seen how badly Stain’s paw is injured. Bob appears intact.
This is an example of the power of the Internet, though. With no minutes left on his prepaid phone, the $200 netbook plus some neighbor’s wifi plus facebook plus text alerts meant that several people immediately saw an alarm. Daniel turned around and biked back from Seal Beach on that alarm, I went across town here, and half a dozen other people immediately responded.
Whiskey Car (n). A car which has been operated by a heavy drinker for some time. A particular damage pattern identifies a Whiskey Car. There will be parking lot dents, small ones with a bit of paint from another car or a pole. A distinctive pattern of impacts will be seen on the top of the fenders or bumpers due to angry car-whacking, for example with a pool cue or a hand tool. The inside of the car will smell vaguely bad, similar to the tobacco and old alcohol aroma of its owner at the end of the evening. Any keyhole will be scratched from impaired attempts to get the key in.
The whiskey car is immediately identifiable by observant people who’ve spent time in bars.
Right after I saw Bob yesterday, he was pedaling home when accosted by Costa Mesa’s finest.
Picture Bob in a big straw hat, reflective bright yellow vest, riding a bike, towing a trailer on which there is a blue dog who is barking happily.
The cops decided he was the one who had just robbed a bank. Bob’s description of the event is below:
Uttered by a blue dog on a trailer and overheard by a passerby…In front of the trailered dog lay sprawled at gunpoint his unphased owner,muttering some bile ladden filth and saying things like “What the fuck” etc. long story short the dog confessed and both parties were released …..fuck me! what is it?break out the Kool Aid and jam for the fucking bridge??!! beyond Keystone we need pictures of me in bike outfit/bank robbery getaway outfit! later