Perfect Excuse to Paint the Town Red

Jim DeWitt

Yesterday did an autopsy on Grandpa's ancient Model-T motor. Dismantling found present lifelessness had no bearing on its state of fatal flaws.

'Twas all those chickens' fault, caught up in a frenzied laying phase. Summer-fried eggs gumming shut the magneto. Consequently preventing its pistons from pumping properly. "But don't despair despite its two hundred thousand miles showing," I told him.

Why'd I have the feeling his knee slapping laugh was unsubtly calling me a dope. "Now start to pray for a Model-A" I called back while compelled to walk away.


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