On The Fence, On The Mend, Tongue’s a Waggin’

My first car was a 1969 Ford Galaxie 500 Country Sedan station wagon. I was 20 years old. All 19 feet of it was white and it had this awesome rear glass window that automatically went up and down with the push of a button. 429 cubic inches of big-time burning of barrels of gasoline. Wagons are my favorite kind of car, utilitarian and spacious, fun and inconspicuous to cops with radar guns and regular guns.

When I was growing up I wanted a red Radio Flyer wagon but it was one of those things that I never got, not because I was deprived, I was just given different toys like Big Wheels and eventually a sweet brown, banana seat bicycle (without training wheels, I might add).

A wagon’s my new whip today. My sweet and interesting nature will be instigated by wholly different reasons and likely by quite a different contingent, as well. I’ll have to wait and see.

A beautiful, glorious, shining wagon that will save me money, blood, regret, and a pile of bad decisions. Well, admittedly, lest we forget the great stories, the legendary fun and the beautiful impulse of reckless abandon that’s often associated with me and fah-watah, in light of all that, my new wagon, however, is gonna be rad.

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