PP: Part Fourteen

This is down the road opposite my house. I just fixed a bike and have been trying to ride the bike up and down that road, which is a mile and a half to go back-and-forth one time with all of it being very consistently painful yet not noticeable inclines and declines. It's all part of my plan to get back into fighting shape since I've felt like fighting people a lot lately. I don't know how my knees feeling like they are burning at the joints and the shins will fall off in a minute if I keep going is gonna make it so I fight better in some shitty bar come football season, but I'm gonna stick with this plan. At least, until some grizzled old drunken pugilist living in a dilapidated camper with newspaper clippings of his more successful youth teaches me otherwise.

If it is stupid to take pictures of funny-nosed old cars with rusted license plates sitting beside unused cinderblock building fronting like it used to be some sort of successful upholstery business, then I am stupid, and always will be. I think the saddest thing about our new-found rim culture is the loss of pimp-ass spaceship hubcaps as seen barely on this bomber.

I went down some side street to turn around and take a picture of a wrecked demo derby car behind a camper trailer in Waynesboro when I saw this old school simple gold-toned white-walled classic sitting under a shade tree. It made me take a Polaroid of it, just by being so motherfuckin' sexy. If I had a car like that, I'd ride around in it all day all night to nowhere at all, just up and down Main Street, with a hard dick inside my camouflage shorts because of how hot this car is.

This was from the past 4th of July Parade in Scottsville. Pic looks like it could've been 1961, but it wasn't. It was last month. Check out the lady in the truck looking my way like, "Look at that weird dude taking a Polaroid picture," as if riding around in some old-ass truck wasn't just as goofy. Also, the black couple behind that fat chick across the street, they are the parents of this kid Rod who I coached in youth soccer. He was awesome. He did a celebratory dance after scoring goals. And this was in Under-8 soccer. In my coaching of the youth, I tend to take to the oddball athletic types like that. Usually means I have a ton of homeschooled Christian kids and mulatto children that don't like to leave their mother's side. But I reach them all, individually, long enough to try to teach them to kick a ball into a net more often than some other dude's chump ass kids he's got on his team.