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Spaceways, v. 4, issue 2, January 1942
Page 8
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8 SPACEWAYS THE LOG OF THE FOOFOO SPECIAL "Two gallons be damned!" I roared in a voice that was heard over in Missouri. From there I made a detailed, decidedly uncomplimentary analysis of his immediate and remote ancestry, with a full character and personality chart thrown in. I was hoping he'd make a pass at me, so I could have the pleasure of stuffing him in the water bucket. I was still mumbling in my beard--yes, I actually raised a neat, black, Pharoah-type goatee on the trip--when we reached the center of Lincoln. The fact that the radiator was so hot that no amount of water did any good--it just boiled away immediately--dint' improve my temper any. I made up my mind to get it fixed once and for all, no matter what it cost. We looked up the Ford-Lincoln dealer, but the regular mechanic was off duty, and his relief couldn't fix anything more complicated than an empty gas tank. We finally went to a recommended place, and boy, did we take a sticking! The goon there suggested the only thing left to do would be to steam out the radiator to the tune of three dollars and fifty cents. We couldn't think of any way to get out of it, so we said (gulp) okay and sauntered off to find sleeping quarters. After considering how the steam job and a night's rest was going to maltreat the feline, we shamelessly decided that the best idea was to try to mooch a flop from the genial Thompson. I was the goat who had to do the calling up and hinting around. However, Deeby was wonderfully hospitable, scratching around and somehow finding five bunks for us. We owe a real debt of gratitude to the Sage-Basilisk. But after explicit directions over the phone, I proceeded to get the boys tangled up in the maze of non-continuous U Street and we picked 'em up and laid 'em down for a weary two miles before we arrived. July 9th--In the morning, we accompanied Deeby to his job at the municipal recreation center. We looked longingly at the cool, green swimming pool with temperature gaining a degree a minute, and even seriously thought of taking a dip, but time would not permit. Twenty-five miles later the thermometer was again bulging at the top and hollering for mercy. The cursing that came forth at this phenomenon must have caused Mr. Steamjob's ears to break out in large and painful blisters away back in Lincoln. I heartily hope they did. In fact, I hope they dropped off altogether! (Schlemiel!) So to a Ford dealer in Nebraska City we went. He took one look in the radiator, and we finally found out the real cause of all our trouble. Hallelujah! It was merely a busted head gasket. But when he got the cylinder head off--oi weh!,--to a dog it shouldn't happen, even a brown one, with black spots yet. So much heating had gone before that the head was cracked and had to be replaced. Total bill--$7.50. Ooooh, ouch! This was just about the kitty's last meow, but at least the car was fixed okay, and we really began to roll. Since we were going to Cinci, we turned south thru St. Joe., Mo., and crossed the upper part of the state, instead of Iowa. Incidentally, we wished we had come that way on the outward trip, for gas is cheaper there than anywhere except Washington, D. C. Just after dark we crossed the Mississippi at Mark Twain's boyhood home, Hannibal. As we struck into the wilds of Illinois, another rip-snorter of an electrical disturbance loomed up ahead of us, but it was traveling in our direction at practically the same speed, and we didn't catch it until after we had passed thru Shroyer's home town of Decaur. But then--goshwowboyoboy, did we catch it! It was just as bad as the previous one mentioned, and it was miles greater in extent. I had been driving continuously for about eighteen hours, and my eyes felt like two burned holes in a blanket. And when the rain blurred the windshield in driving sheets, and the lightning seemed to come from every point of the compass lighting everything in single tremendous flares, as if a gigantic welding torch were being turned on and off just above the roof of the car--my tortured optics
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8 SPACEWAYS THE LOG OF THE FOOFOO SPECIAL "Two gallons be damned!" I roared in a voice that was heard over in Missouri. From there I made a detailed, decidedly uncomplimentary analysis of his immediate and remote ancestry, with a full character and personality chart thrown in. I was hoping he'd make a pass at me, so I could have the pleasure of stuffing him in the water bucket. I was still mumbling in my beard--yes, I actually raised a neat, black, Pharoah-type goatee on the trip--when we reached the center of Lincoln. The fact that the radiator was so hot that no amount of water did any good--it just boiled away immediately--dint' improve my temper any. I made up my mind to get it fixed once and for all, no matter what it cost. We looked up the Ford-Lincoln dealer, but the regular mechanic was off duty, and his relief couldn't fix anything more complicated than an empty gas tank. We finally went to a recommended place, and boy, did we take a sticking! The goon there suggested the only thing left to do would be to steam out the radiator to the tune of three dollars and fifty cents. We couldn't think of any way to get out of it, so we said (gulp) okay and sauntered off to find sleeping quarters. After considering how the steam job and a night's rest was going to maltreat the feline, we shamelessly decided that the best idea was to try to mooch a flop from the genial Thompson. I was the goat who had to do the calling up and hinting around. However, Deeby was wonderfully hospitable, scratching around and somehow finding five bunks for us. We owe a real debt of gratitude to the Sage-Basilisk. But after explicit directions over the phone, I proceeded to get the boys tangled up in the maze of non-continuous U Street and we picked 'em up and laid 'em down for a weary two miles before we arrived. July 9th--In the morning, we accompanied Deeby to his job at the municipal recreation center. We looked longingly at the cool, green swimming pool with temperature gaining a degree a minute, and even seriously thought of taking a dip, but time would not permit. Twenty-five miles later the thermometer was again bulging at the top and hollering for mercy. The cursing that came forth at this phenomenon must have caused Mr. Steamjob's ears to break out in large and painful blisters away back in Lincoln. I heartily hope they did. In fact, I hope they dropped off altogether! (Schlemiel!) So to a Ford dealer in Nebraska City we went. He took one look in the radiator, and we finally found out the real cause of all our trouble. Hallelujah! It was merely a busted head gasket. But when he got the cylinder head off--oi weh!,--to a dog it shouldn't happen, even a brown one, with black spots yet. So much heating had gone before that the head was cracked and had to be replaced. Total bill--$7.50. Ooooh, ouch! This was just about the kitty's last meow, but at least the car was fixed okay, and we really began to roll. Since we were going to Cinci, we turned south thru St. Joe., Mo., and crossed the upper part of the state, instead of Iowa. Incidentally, we wished we had come that way on the outward trip, for gas is cheaper there than anywhere except Washington, D. C. Just after dark we crossed the Mississippi at Mark Twain's boyhood home, Hannibal. As we struck into the wilds of Illinois, another rip-snorter of an electrical disturbance loomed up ahead of us, but it was traveling in our direction at practically the same speed, and we didn't catch it until after we had passed thru Shroyer's home town of Decaur. But then--goshwowboyoboy, did we catch it! It was just as bad as the previous one mentioned, and it was miles greater in extent. I had been driving continuously for about eighteen hours, and my eyes felt like two burned holes in a blanket. And when the rain blurred the windshield in driving sheets, and the lightning seemed to come from every point of the compass lighting everything in single tremendous flares, as if a gigantic welding torch were being turned on and off just above the roof of the car--my tortured optics
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