110 mph on a test drive.

Sorry for the long wait for my next recollection.  I’ve got hundreds of stories, all true, but I’ve been screwing around and haven’t taken care of business.  Please remember, absolutely EVERY SINGLE WORD is true.  Thank you.


In about October 1967, I parked my ’65 Dodge Coronet 500, two-door hard-top convertible, with a 383 engine, on Anaheim Boulevard, across the street from the Anaheim Dodge new-and used-car dealership.  I was on “Auto Row” in Anaheim with new-car dealers as far as the eye could see.  I ran across the street and headed for the parts department, where I hoped to get a part for my car.  A man came out of the showroom and headed for me.  “Come on in, we’ve got some great deals.”  Why not?  He showed me a 1967 Dodge Polara.  It had power everything and was a fucking STEAL at $3200, but I told Monte, the salesman, “I like something a little “hotter.”  He said, “I know just what you’d like.”  I followed him outside to a brand-new two-door hard-top 1968 Dodge Charger RT with big-ass “Bumble-Bee” stickers on the rear quarter-panels, a 440 c.i.d. engine with three two-barrel carbs (a SIX-PACK), with an air scoop in the hood.  That car is in a tie for second place for the number of carbs in a car I’ve driven.  The winner is a 1968 Maserati, which had SIX dual side-draft Weber carburetors, which I drove at NINETY (90) mph, in a 25 mph zone, but that’s another story.  You may be, at this time, starting to think that I’m shitting you.  I’m not, thank you.  Monte was his name.  How can I remember that?  Seriously, NOBODY could remember that, right?  Don’t give up, there’s a surprise ending to this story.

I fired her up and headed for the street in 1st gear.  On the street, I tried to shift into 2nd and the damned thing ground the gears like a motherfucker. EVERY time I tried to up- or down-shift the goddamn tranny, it would grind.  It absolutely was not my fault, it was the cheap-ass tranny that Dodge bought from some Lithuanian pimp, and not from MUNCIE, where they got all their 4-speeds both before and after 1968, but THAT tranny was completely fucked at city driving speeds.  I had to double-clutch the motherfucker on ALL shifts.  Monte thought that I didn’t know how to drive a stick shift.  I explained to him that it was entirely the fault of the transmission but he didn’t believe me.

Monte had told me, a BUNCH of times, that we were going to go to a street where I could “open it up,” as he explained it.  He guaranteed that I could go as fast as I wanted and that there was a ZERO possibility of the cops being anywhere near there.  About half-way through his telling me about this wonderful place the second time, I had figured out that the city of Anaheim had built this street for all of the dealerships to use as a TEST TRACK, so as to sell more cars and contribute the sales tax to the city’s bank account.  Cops would queer that deal.  Yee-hah.  It was 1 mile long, with dead-ends at both ends, with a signal-controlled intersection in the middle.

In 2nd gear,  at about 25 mph, I drove over some railroad tracks, slowed for a right turn, down-shifted to 1st, noiselessly and smoothly by double clutching it, and made the turn.  I had put on my lap belt before that car had moved an inch, but Monte hadn’t put his on.  I straightened her out and hammered it.  Monte immediately started looking for his seat belt.  It was tangled up under his bucket seat so he braced his left foot against the transmission tunnel, his right foot up against the fire-wall, his left arm was around the upper back of his seat, and his right arm was on the door, with his right hand holding the roof of the car with a DEATH GRIP.

I glanced down and saw the needle passing 100 mph.  At the same moment, Monte released some of his “holds” and leaned WAY over, so he could see the speedo.  He said, “Man, it sure gets up to a hundred miles an hour, fast, doesn’t it?”  I said, “It sure does,”  shifted into 4th gear at 105, and shut her down after the needle had pointed to 110.  It shifted perfectly, AT SPEED, but the son of a bitch was squirrelly in traffic.  It was, most definitely, a POS tranny.  I COASTED to a fucking stop, thank you.  I down-shifted all the way down to second and didn’t touch the brake until I was doing only 30 mph.

Over FORTY years later, I was living in a senior living facility, in Anaheim, and my table-mate, in the dining room, was a nice woman named Charlene.  At the table, one day, I told her this story.  When I was through, she told me she had heard the SAME STORY a dozen or more times.  She explained that she had worked for McPeak Chrysler/Plymouth, which was also on Auto Row, and that the same people owned both dealerships.  They all went to the same Bar-B-Ques and Christmas parties, so she knew the salesman I had taken on that ride.  His name was Monte Something and he told the story to everyone he met.  He had told it thousands of times.

Charlene told me that every time he told the story he would say, at the end of it, “I have to give him this:  he knew what he was doing; he was a good driver.”  Thank you, Monte.

The Dresden Firestorm Massacre Was A Botched Allied Mission If The ‘Official’ Death Toll Is To Be Believed & The Victims Are Conveniently Vaporized From History

WEARS WAR has moved to a new website!

The incineration of large numbers of people in Dresden is also indicated by estimates of the extreme temperature reached in Dresden during the firestorm…

I saw the most painful scene ever… Several persons were near the entrance, others at the flight of steps and many others further back in the cellar. The shapes suggested human corpses. The body structure was recognizable and the shape of the skulls, but they had no clothes. Eyes and hair carbonized but not shrunk. When touched, they disintegrated into ashes, totally, no skeleton or separate bones.

I recognized a male corpse as that of my father.

Dresden montage 1


Many conflicting estimates have been made concerning the number of deaths during the raids of Dresden on February 13-14, 1945. Historian Richard J. Evans estimates that approximately 25,000 people died during these bombings.[1] Frederick Taylor estimates that from 25,000 to 40,000 people died as…

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“Edwin, you miserable motherfucker.”

We, in Security, at Harrah’s Lake Tahoe, Nevada, used to amuse each other by telling “Edwin stories.”  There were only five or six of them, and I was present for three of the best ones.  Edwin Swisher, his real name, was a flaming fag who loved to gross people out.  He was an assistant cashier supervisor, whose room-mate was named Judy.  Judy liked girls, of all colors, and black guys, roomed with Edwin, and was his supervisor in the cashier’s department.  Judy and I were pretty tight; I gave her neck and shoulder massages, and she gave me drink tokes.  It was a very symbiotic relationship.


The first of my Edwin stories happened on a day I was working on my tan and drinking lots of beer.  It was my day off, the temperature was about 75 degrees, and it was about October 12, 1980.  The very next day, we got TWO FEET of snow.  My supervisor, Roland, called me on the phone and asked me if I could come in to work.  I told him I’d be there in one hour.  Exactly one hour later, I walked onto the casino floor, in my uniform.  I spotted Roland standing in front of the Baccarat Room, and walked over to him.  I said, “Here I am, Roland,” and stepped right over and on his right size 14 wing-tip.  “Oh, shit man, I’m sorry.”  He immediately knew I was drunk, but he didn’t care; I was the warm body he needed.  Several hours later, I was backed up to the main cashier’s counter, with my elbows on the counter.  Judy walked over, on the other side of the counter, and said, “Rock (she called me Rock), what’s the matter with you?”  “Oh, Judy, I’m so fucked up; it’s my day off and Roland called me in to work.  I’ve been drinking Henry Weinhard all afternoon and, now that the buzz has worn off, I’m hung over, bad.”  “What’s Henry Weinhard?”  “It’s a new beer, from Oregon.  It’s pretty good. It tastes like it’s imported.”  Edwin was counting about $200,000 dollars, on the back counter.  Judy turned and asked him, “Have you ever had Henry Weinhard, Edwin?”  In his lisping, faggy voice, he said, “Let me see, now, I’ve had a lot of Henrys, but never Henry Weinhard.”  I was too fucked up to laugh.


The second story involved a new girl, on her first night, I believe.  She was working the chip window, where pit bosses and security officers get chips to take out and put on a table.  She had two buttons, under her counter, to buzz people in and out of the cashier’s cage, and through a door to the coin room, which the cashiers used as a shortcut to the employee’s cafeteria.  Edwin was swishing by, behind her, as I was getting a chip fill from her.  He said, “Give me a buzz, please.”  He was very polite.  The new girl said, “Are you going down, Edwin?”  She was asking him if he was in need of a second buzz, on a different door, to go down into the coin room.  He said, “Every chance I get.”  I went to hysterical city, laughing my ass off.  The poor girl quit that night.


The third, and last Edwin story I have, also took place at the chip-fill window.  One of the senior pit-bosses, a guy named Jerry, who was just as queer, and almost as outrageous, as Edwin, had bungled writing up a pit fill.  The security officer should have questioned him about it, but he was a new guy, and kind of slow.  Edwin should have caught the mistake, though, because NOBODY would EVER write a pit fill that goofy.  I was walking by the pit and heard Jerry going ballistic about the fill, saying that Edwin should have known it was a mistake.  I cruised up and apprised Jerry of the new rules, regarding returning a bogus pit fill.  As I was instructing Jerry, another pit boss walked by and said, “Listen to him, Jerry, he knows what he’s talking about.”  Jerry, now, understood what he had to do; which involved a long, time-consuming process, to return the bogus chips.  There were two new pit fills, filled out by other pit bosses, sitting on the little counter, in the middle of the pit.  I grabbed them, handed one to the new guy, let him go first and, when he got his filled, started filling out the paperwork for my fill.  Right beside me was a pit boss from another pit, who was stroking and schmoozing two high rollers.  They were preparing to do some transactions involving thousands of dollars.  Edwin had just given me the trays full of chips, for my fill, and I was making sure that there weren’t any missing chips, when Jerry approached the window.  From about 15 feet away, he spotted Edwin and said, in a VERY loud voice, “Edwin, you miserable motherfucker.”  I do a great imitation of Jerry, but just imagine Gilbert Gottfried, and you’ve got it.  High, whiny and nasal.  I started going nuts, laughing like crazy, while the other pit boss and the two high rollers were having cardiac infarctions.  As he got closer to the window, he said, “Edwin, I’m out in that pit, just WORKING MY TITS OFF, and you make me go through this bullshit.  You know that I would never write a stupid fill like that.”  At “working my tits off,” I slid down to the floor.  My knees were both on the floor, while my hands were still above me, on the counter, protecting my chips.  That was the most fun job that I’ve ever had.


I’ve mentioned that I parked cars, off and on, for ten years, at a nice prime rib restaurant in Long Beach, California.  That financed my way through my last two years of college and four years of law school.  I took care of about three dozen dogs, on a regular basis; their owners would come in, leave the dog with me in the parking lot, and go inside for dinner. The dogs loved me to death because I would go in the kitchen and get them prime rib bones, with lots of meat on them.   One dog that came in every Friday night, for several years, was a stocky black poodle named Jinx.  Jinx liked to show his dick to cute pubescent girls, but that’s a different story. One night I was taking care of Jinx, and a long-haired hippie meth-freak asshole, with his piece of shit scraggly-assed German Shepherd, walked by my lot, on the way to a market, on the corner.  They walked by about once a month, when I was in the lot.  The dog always had a leash attached to his collar, but the hippie NEVER held the other end of the leash; the dog just dragged it down the sidewalk. Jinx was on my lap, when Costa George, a prominent attorney in Long Beach, and his long-suffering girl-friend (they dated for TEN YEARS before he married the poor girl) came outside.  I put Jinx down and ran to get their car.  As I was driving it up to where they were standing, I saw the hippie, with a bag of groceries, and his dog, walking back towards where they lived.  I had no idea that something had happened.  When I got out of the car, Costa told me what had gone down. The Shepherd had viciously attacked Jinx, for no reason, and Costa had kicked the mangy cur in the head.  The hippie, who had made absolutely NO effort to get his dog off of Jinx, spoke up:  “Hey man, don’t be kicking my dog, man.”  Costa told him, “After I get through kicking your dog, you’re next, asshole.” The hippie scum then said,  “(Kissing sounds) Come on, boy, let’s go, come on.”

Two or three years later, on a beautiful summer day, in the late afternoon, I was taking care of Tag, a blond Cocker Spaniel/Wienie-dog mix.  Tag was on my lap, when a young couple who had never been there before and never came back, came out to get their car.  I put Tag on the ground (he was attached to my chair by a leash, as Jinx had been, and went to get their car.  Just before I got to their car, I heard Tag screaming because the Shepherd, who had passed my lot with his owner, ten minutes or so, before, was trying to kill him.  I couldn’t see what was happening, but I could see the hippie standing there, not trying to prevent his dog from killing Tag.  The young couple had run to the far side of the lot and were holding each other, obviously frightened.  As I was running full-tilt-boogie, I rounded the last car, and saw Tag on his back, with the Shepherd trying to rip his throat out.  At full speed, I intended kicking the Shepherd as hard as I could, in the rib cage.  I planted my left foot and swung my right leg at the Shepherd.  Half-way through the kick, I let up, and only kicked that piece of shit dog at about 50% of what I had originally intended, which I instantly regretted.  However the GSD let go of Tag and crouched down, only about six feet in front of me, with his fur sticking up, his ears back, his mouth open, showing his teeth, drool coming out of his mouth, and growling at me.  A CLASSIC pre-attack posture.  I could have drawn my gun, which I had down the front of my pants, and shot that fucking dog, and the cops would have given me an “Attaboy.”  Instead, I was so pissed off, that I was prepared to kill that dog with my bare hands.  I pointed my right index finger at the dog, and said, “You’d better back down, you asshole, or I will fucking KILL YOU.”  Hippie scum, “Hey, man, don’t be kicking my dog, man.”  At “KILL YOU,” the dog had instantly slammed its tail so far between it’s legs, that the full length of his tail was touching his belly, and started slinking away from me, towards his owner, to whom I addressed this message:  “Listen up, asshole, you’d better get you AND your dog, out of MY parking lot, or I will KILL YOUR DOG and stomp YOUR FUCKING ASS.”  (Emphasis in the original.)  Hippie scum, “(Kissing sounds) Come on, boy, let’s go, come on.”

Dog behaviorists will tell you to NEVER look a vicious dog in the eyes because that is an aggressive move which will cause the dog to attack you.  What they DON’T tell you, is that if you can convince the dog that it will get IT’S ass kicked, then it will back down.  That dog slunk all the way home, and I never saw them again.


I Really Hate Jaywalkers

The very first person to read my autobiography, “SEX WITH CHICKENS,” said to me, “You sure do hate jaywalkers, don’t you?”  Me declaring war on jaywalkers was, perhaps, .01% of the book, but it impressed her a lot.  There are several reasons why I hate the bastards; the #1 being that jaywalkers NEVER stop for pedestrians who are in the street legally.  NEVER, unless forced to, by the likes of me.  One time, on a beautiful late afternoon in Lake Tahoe, I was cruising eastbound (and down), on Highway 50, towards Nevada, in my taxi-cab when, what to my wondering eyes should appear?  Standing in the absolute middle of the two-lanes-in-both-directions-with-a-2-way-left-turn-lane-in-the-middle, major transportation corridor, during what passed for ‘rush hour’ in South Lake Tahoe, was a visibly pregnant (about 7 1/2 months) nice looking young woman, pushing a baby stroller which, one could presume, contained a baby, standing in a clearly marked crosswalk, and NOBODY WAS STOPPING.  I glanced over my right shoulder, to see if I could change lanes,  cut the wheel HARD, and SLAMMED on the brakes.  I straddled both lanes of traffic, stopping traffic back to the “Y.”  NOBODY honked at me; they knew better than to fuck with an enraged MF like me.  I sat there, along with 100 or so other cars, until she was safely on the sidewalk, then drove off.  A sarcastic ‘tip of the hat’ to those wankers behind me:  I don’t think there was a single rear-ender back there, which was amazing.

One time I was driving an ex-Nevada Highway Patrol cruiser, with two elderly couples in it, when about a dozen assholes stepped off the curb, about 50 feet away from a marked crosswalk, and commenced to jaywalk right in front of my taxi-cab.  I immediately slammed the pedal to the metal, and aimed for the middle of the mob.  That ex-cruiser had a 360 cid engine, with a 4-barrel that, when punched, sucks air like a mo-fo:  WHOOSH.  A red-lined engine, with a sucking carb, alerted those assholes that something was afoot.  They all started screaming and running.  It wasn’t even close; they all moved very fast.  I noticed that there was a black couple in the mob who, I’m sure, believed that it was a “racist” thing and that I was targeting only them.  No way, Ho-zay.  A nice old lady, close to 80 years old, said to me, from the back seat, “Boy, young man, those people sure were asking to be killed.”  I LOVE little old ladies, especially those who give me straight lines.  I replied, “Yes, ma’am, and I’m the ANGEL OF DEATH.” Those folks (all four of them) laughed and cackled like they hadn’t done in, probably, decades.

Another time, in a different ex-police car, which had the same engine, I punched it and headed for the middle of a group of at least 30 people who were jaywalking, in a crosswalk, but against a red light.  They all yelled, flipped me off, and ran like hell.

I almost ran over an asshole who stepped right in front of my moving cab.  He might have been looking to make a bogus insurance claim.  I slammed on the brakes, the cab stopping less than one foot away from the asshole.  If there had been a push-bar on that cab, I would have hit him.  I honked and he stood, right in front of the hood ornament, and gave me the finger.  I had two even older couples in my cab, this time.  I put the cab in park, turned off the waiting time on the meter, took off my seatbelt, picked up Mr. Crowbar off the floor, opened the door and got out.  The jaywalker hadn’t moved.  I looked back, in the cab and, I swear, all four of those geezers, none of whom had a sense of humor, were all clutching their chests, with their mouths wide open, gasping for air.  I looked at the asshole, who looked like a deer in the headlights, then back at my passengers, and thought, “If I beat the shit out of this asshole, I’m going to have four cardiac arrests on my hands,” and got back in my cab, while the asshole sprinted across the street.

All these stories are just an introduction to my first encounter with an asshole jaywalker, whom I tried, with every atom in my body, to kill, after I gave him a sporting chance to save his life.  3 am, in the “dark” side of town, ADT car (POS ’63 Plymouth, 6-cylinder, 3-speed stick shift), 60 mph in a 25 zone, very wide street, nigger steps into the street on my left.  The moment I see the asshole, I do several things; hit the high beams, downshift to second gear, jam the pedal to the floor, and aim my hood ornament at him like a rifle sight.  The darkie stopped, almost turned back, which he should have done, but decided to cross the street anyway.  As he moved, I moved, keeping that hood ornament centered on him.  He quickly was running full-tilt, for the other side of the street, a good 50 feet away, as I was bearing down on him, maybe 200 feet away.  That POS car topped out at 58 mph, in second gear.  If  I had left it in 3rd, I would have hit him before he made it halfway across.  As he neared the parked cars, on the right, which offered him protection, I lined up about 6 inches from the parked cars and continued to race at him.  I would have hit him if he had not dived, like Superman, for the parked cars.  My car passed by the soles of his shoes, doing 58 mph, missing him by about 6 inches.  I shifted to 3rd, turned off the high beams, flipped the mirror to the “day” position, and looked back.  He didn’t get up.  He must have done a face-plant on the asphalt or a header into the curb.  Fuck him; if I would have hit him, I would have kept going.  No witnesses and, if he had lived, absolutely no description of the car.  Yes, I TRULY hate jaywalkers.





A Demon Almost Killed Me

The F-3 Demon was the worst POS airplane that anybody has ever made.  It was grossly overweight and horribly underpowered.  The guys who flew them had to fool themselves that they were “fighter jocks.”  A Sopwith Camel could take a Demon, in a dog fight.  In the late ’50s, the use of computers to design airplanes was started.  The engineers thought, “Let’s run the complete plans, for an existing plane, through the computer, and see what it says about that plane.”  I don’t know why, but they ran the plans, for the Demon, through their computer, and the machine said, “IT WILL NOT FLY.”

Skip forward to the Fall of ’62.  On my first 10 day car-qual, on the Ticonderoga, I was the dedicated “field nigger” that had to work as a “troubleshooter” on the flight deck.  Not a single one of the other squadrons had a troubleshooter assigned thereto.  But I was the lone “Reserve” in my squadron, so I got all the shit jobs.  When our electronics shop got its first Negro, many moons later, HE immediately became the new field-nigger-on-the-flight-deck, and I became the new house-nigger-on-the-hangar-deck.

That first 10 days and nights, working on the flight deck, weren’t too bad, although I had to work 20 hours each and every day.  The absolute worst part of it was the bone-numbing cold, at night.  The air temp was probably around 50 degrees but , with a 30 knot wind, the wind-chill was around 20 degrees F.  Wearing four layers of clothes (15 layers wouldn’t have helped) didn’t keep the wet, salty air from penetrating to your body.  To try and keep warm, 40 or 50 guys would stand in a big circle, huddling together.  This wasn’t some homo-inspired group-grope, it was a basic survival technique.  The guys on the inside were, of course, warm, and didn’t want to exchange places with the guys on the outside, who were cold. and wanted to get inside.  I figured that there had to be a better way to handle the cold, and decided to bring some BRANDY out with me, on the next cruise.

A couple of weeks later, on the next 10 day car-qual, my bottle of cherry-flavored brandy was tapped twice a night.  Once at 8 pm and again at 10 pm.  One shot, and I would be toasty warm for two hours.  For a couple of nights, I stayed on the outside, keeping other guys warm.  On this one particular night, I had just been down to my locker, to take a shot, and was standing on the forward flight deck, a few feet away from the mob, watching the planes land on the angle deck.  It was neat, being able to watch the action, and without being really cold.

A Demon, which landed at 160 knots, compared to an F-4 Phantom, FA-18, or any other jet fighter, all of which landed at 130 knots, touched down, missed all the wires, which probably saved the pilot’s life, and took off (boltered) again.  In it’s short time on the deck, it managed to lose its entire starboard main gear.  The wheel separated from the strut, the latter bouncing end-over-end down the angle deck, and going into the ocean.  The wheel, a monster that stood about 4 feet tall, weighing about 400 pounds, and doing about 180 mph, bounced 2 or 3 times, then settled down, hauling ass directly (like an arrow) towards the 40 or 50 guys in the group hug.  NOBODY, except me, saw what had happened, and I yelled out, “There’s a wheel coming down the deck.  Everybody scatter.”  Everybody did, in fact, scatter, and that wheel went right over what had been the exact middle of that mob of men, shot out over the forward edge of the flight deck, and landed in the water, about 100 yards in front of the carrier, sending up a huge plume of water.  Not a single one of those assholes thanked me for saving their life.

About an hour later, we got to see the pilot of the Demon eject from the plane, only about 1/4 mile off our starboard bow, at 2,000 feet.  That was way cool.

If it hadn’t been for that shot of brandy, I would have been part of that hug-a-thon, and probably killed, along with a bunch of other bluejackets.  I never took brandy out with me again, weighing my comfort against a possible court-martial for having booze aboard the ship.  It’s OK for the officers, but not the enlisted men.

(That was N-D experience #5)