This was going to be a short story about something my cousin Dale once did, but unless I give you some background on him, you probably wouldn't believe the story anyway.
Dale, like myself, was born and raised on a farm, and lived just a couple of miles away from me. He came from a large family with six kids, and he was a year older than I am.
Dale learned to drive and repair vehicles at an early age, thanks to running tractors on the farm, and stealing one for a joyride around the fields every once in awhile when his parents were away. He dropped out of school after the ninth grade, and by the time he was 18, he was making $25 an hour driving a huge dump truck for my dad's excavating business.
One of the first vehicles he owned was an old '64 Chevy pickup that was pretty much stripped of everything except seats and a very powerful engine. Everybody called it the "stump puller" because of its ridiculous amount of torque. Just by punching and letting off the accelerator rhythmically, he could get the front end to hop completely off the ground! This was partially due to some really, really wide rear tires, a pair of Mickey Thompson 50-series that were wider than they were tall, not something commonly seen in the 70's.
He did a lot of crazy shit in that pickup. One day, I was driving home in my lime green Pontiac Ventura when I spotted him nearly half a mile away, driving in my direction on a long, straight stretch of road near my house. He spotted me too, and we both punched it and roared toward each other.
Now, I had been working with him an entire summer that year, both of us driving dump trucks on a project on my dad's farm. We played a lot of "chicken" with the dump trucks while hauling dirt, and were each familiar with the other's driving habits.
Anyway, as we approached each other on the street that day, each doing a good 85 MPH or so in a 30 zone, I steered over into the oncoming lane, and he did the same. At the last second, we both jumped back into our respective right lanes as we went flying by the local Minit Mart in opposite directions. If anyone was watching, they probably shit themselves.
One day, Dale picked up a friend of mine and I in the "stump puller" and we drove off to a nearby neighborhood to get stoned. On the way out of this neighborhood, the road went up a fairly steep and isolated hill, a good spot for doing burnouts. Dale wound it up, dropped the clutch, and the Mickeys filled the valley with smoke as the pickup roared slowly up the hill. We were laughing like hell as the Chevy actually slowed down and stopped moving forward, even with the accelerator to the floor and the tires still spinning. When Dale finally let off, the truck started sliding backwards and sideways on a trail of hot rubber as he jumped on the brakes. We had liquefied the Mickey Thompson 50s! I don't know how much longer that pair of tires lasted.
Now, when we were teenagers, we spent a lot of time in cars. It was always a good way to get away from your parents and exercise what freedom you had. In this atmosphere, Dale understood this rule: He who controls the set of power window switches controls the world.
Dale's stump puller didn't have power windows, but his next two cars, a '67 Chevy Impala fastback coupe and a big four-door T-Bird, about a '70 or so, both did.
Dale would wield control of the power windows like a fascist dictator, to punish or embarrass his passengers.
One weekend, Dale, his girlfriend Tammy, my friend Greg and I decided to take a road trip to Lion Country Safari, one of those "drive-through" zoos about three hours away. In the park, as we passed through a flock of ostriches in Dale's big red T-Bird, one very large and curious bird put its face against the glass where Tammy was riding in the passenger seat. Greg and I were in the back, smoking dope and laughing like hell at the stupid-looking bird, and Tammy began shrieking. This made us laugh even harder, and made Dale roll down Tammy's window. With Tammy still screaming, the ostrich poked its freaky head and neck clear into the car, eyeing the screaming woman with a blank look, then turning and gazing at the two laughing pot-heads in the back seat. Greg and I laughed so hard we nearly peed our pants.
But the best incident ever was one I missed for some reason, but had recounted to me.
Dale and Greg were driving around the downtown of a nearby large city one evening in Dale's '67 Impala, just screwing around and looking for something to do. Now, Greg was a shy fellow of about 18 at the time, and would not have his first girlfriend until he was about 35 years old. This made him an easy target for an extroverted sort like Dale.
Dale spotted a nice looking woman on the sidewalk ahead, waiting for a crosswalk light. He pulled over to the curb.
"Ma'am?" he yelled at the woman. She looked up. Dale motioned her towards him, and she walked toward the car.
"Ma'am, could I sniff your pussy?"
The woman stepped backwards, but seemed mildly amused. "I don't think so," she replied.
Dale floored it on out of there, then made a U-turn. The woman had crossed the street and was now waiting for another light to turn.
Dale pulled up to the curb again, this time with the passenger side of the car, and Greg, facing the woman. He rolled down Greg's window and held it down.
"Ma'am?" Dale yelled, getting her attention again. Again, she approached the car.
"Ma'am, could my FRIEND sniff your pussy?"
DALE later married TAMMY. They have three kids and live on a nice farm with, among many other critters, some emus, a close cousin of the ostrich.