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I Missed A Day: Introducing “Chuckwagon III”

I actually left town for a couple of days to visit my sister and a few of my numerous cool nieces (I got to see four of 7 nieces–but none of my 8 nephews), which was awesome–my family is saturated by fantastic young folks–all of whom are going to come visit at Christmas, right?  Right?!  Thought so.

The main reason I abandoned you was to retrieve the latest in a long and storied line of ponderous machines.  I bought Chuckwagon back in 1991, after my mechanic told me he wouldn’t repair my old Datsun because, and I quote, “Son, people die in cars like this.”  Chuckwagon was better–Chuckwagon wasn’t rusted at all; it had merely been on fire, which was only the beginning of the legend.

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Chuckwagon inevitably evolved from primer grey beater to elaborate oil sieve, and I was wagon-less for the better part of a decade, until I traded some manual labor for Chuckwagon II: Son of Chuckwagon, a gloriously square ’84 Caprice that we used as a second car until it had the temerity to pop a break line while my wife was driving it.  Son of Chuckwagon was sent to the breakers, but it was my heart that was broken.  There was something about that backwards-facing rear seat….

There he goes….

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I’m stubborn, and when I found myself, three years later, with a few coins from beneath the sofa cushions, I couldn’t help by replace my latest beater–and my pickup–with a single, massive, beastly descendant of the great Chuckwagon gene pond.  So, without further ado, I introduce Chuckwagon III: The Legend Grows.

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It’s only a matter of time until….

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By JunkChuck

Native, Militant Westsylvanian (the first last best place), laborer, gardener, and literary hobbyist (if by literary you mean "hack"). I've had a bunch of different blogs, probably four, due to a recurring compulsion to start over. This incarnation owes to a desire to dredge up the best entries of the worst little book of hand-scrawled poems I could ever dream of writing, salvageable excerpts from fiction both in progress and long-abandoned. and a smattering of whatever the hell seems to fit at any particular moment. At first blush, I was here just to focus on old, terrible verse, but I reserve the right to include...anything. Maybe everything, certainly my love of pulp novels, growing garlic, the Pittsburgh Steelers and howling at the moon--both figuratively and, on rare occasions, literally.

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