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1994dec20. Route 66 Fiasco #3.

Editor’s Note.
You may have noticed that the productivity level of recent missives has shot up about 300%, although one would surmise that the rush of the holiday season would put a damper on this fruitless endeavor. The way we see it, YOU'RE our extended family, and we’d like you to consider this special holiday batch of missives your gift (what a bunch of cheapies!) for being a good little goober all year and/or not/worshipping the icon of your choice. I promise you that we will drop back down to our weak and weary weekly missive shot come the new year. Also, I would like to send out a call for help concerning my two-day case of the hiccups. I’ve tried the gag thing, the water thing, the lack-of-air thing, and the have-someone-scream-the-name-of-the-platonic-woman-friend- that-you-had-the-hots-for-but-then-she-became-a-born-again-Christian-suddenly- at-you thing, but nothing seems to work. The latter one worked once, but now, every time I get the hiccups, I immediately think of her. Cursed, I am. Errr, WE are. [memo to ourselves: that WE joke is getting really stale]

Blue/Red Light Special.
We took the X Mag Staff Car out for a quick spin to test the new tires and its general road-worthiness for our X Mag Staff Car raffle winner, Mr. DOC of SKITTLES, ARIZONA (Doc sends along a mini-update: “The Santa suit fits nicely”). It passed the road test (much better than early in July, when part of one of the tires inexplicably got caught in the front-right quarter-panel. Don’t ask), and it also passed the cop-magnet test. Dovetailing behind us quite handily, a Plymouth police officer pulled us over trying to get on I-275, a mere two minutes after starting the car (a new record!). “Kind of cold to be driving a convertible this time of year, isn’t it?” I'll spare you the emotionally-gripping transcript; as it turns out, the license plate had dropped down again (see X8). The driver of our chase car is convinced that this officer also participated in the humorous four-cop-car-starter’s-pistol-excuse melee, of which I offer a small transcript dollop:

OFFICER (upon seeing the Fisher-Price fun jet on the hood, and a painting of the same jet in flames on the trunk): “Are you a pilot?"
ALL NON-UNIFORMED PERSONNEL IN IMMEDIATE AREA (flooding their respective bodies with Maximum Laughter Suppression endorphins): “mmm”
DRIVER: “No sir. They’re toys.”
After being pulled over last night, I wasn’t sure which was stupider: riding in a convertible (actually, a car with the roof cut off) in the dead of winter, being pulled over, or the fact that the officer let us go ... “Come on, Jake! Let’s do those crimes ... “

Ha ha fun-e ending story.
Our supposed future internet provider refused our application, saying “x” was too short of a login name. After reminding them that one-character login names in unix are perfectly acceptable, the humble tech on the other end of line provided unasked-for advice: “Maybe you could make it ‘e-x’ ... or ‘s-e-x’ (guffaws).” I’m already enjoying the amazing professionalism of these people.

[Coming up next week: “Sniff ... sniff ... what’s that smell? It’s the exciting action adventures of LIBEL HOUND!”]