BTB, He Knows What About What

Bald Tire Bob, he eased himself nice & slow out of hiding, being that he was reasonably sure the Feds had given on up and moved themselves to harassing other Americans who ain’t as much on the ready like Bob: like Bob says, when the black sedans pull up in front of the house is not the time to be figuring yourself out where the flashlight batteries are. Bob, he keeps a generator in the woods disguised like a dead cow, even the flies fall for it.

Heck, sometimes it does a man good to go all off the radar a bit and live low and steady, gives himself a chance to brush up on the slippy skills: for instance, Bob he only paid for his cases of Colt .45 with rolls of nickels, no way the Feds were gonna trace him by the spy strips in their paper money, it’s a fact.

Now, Bob he knows not all Feds are trouble, some are just doin’ their job to pay for the Mrs’ minivan, but if you set yourself up as a hand-puppet of the government you best can’t complain about their fingers all stickin’ up your glove, if you know what about what.

BTB, He Gives Because He Cares

Bald Tire Bob, he likes himself to stay on the good side of the street, spirit-wise. Son, it’s not enough to have enough, you have to give some back. The Man Upstairs, he knows ungrateful when he sees it, and he sees just about everything, except maybe down in Bob’s command post in the compound, it’s lined with lead to keep the Feds guessing. Still, He probably can see in there, too, Bob he doesn’t think the Big Guy could make himself something he couldn’t see himself through, but that’s part of the Big Mystery – you could go yourself crazy trying to think too much about it.

Anyway, The Man Upstairs he knows ungrateful – he made the Belgians, only He knows himself why – so Bob, he likes to give back to the community all upstanding-like. Just last year he gave the College Woman’s Volleyball all new uniforms, with only a modest Bald Tire Bob Automotive logo on the back by the spaghetti straps, tasteful.

Still, you give of yourself and son you find out who the haters are: they say themselves things like “Bob, those are inappropriate” or “Bob, there ain’t no way I’m letting my daughter jump herself up-and-down in that”, the jealous ones always find themselves with something to complain themselves about.

So Bob, he don’t let it get himself down, he’s got a LeBaron so the Man Upstairs, he and Bob are square. Heck, this year Bob he thinks it’s time to help the College Woman’s Swim Team some, keep them aerodynamic or whatever it is when you go through the water real fast.

BTB Knows About Moon Cheese.

So Big Chuck was all talkin’ about maybe selling himself some grass lobster jams and jellies on the eBay, sayin’ how he could make the kind of money that lets a man own shoes ’cause he wants to, not ’cause he has to.

Well, Bald Tire Bob, he asked Big Chuck if he even had himself a computer, and Big Chuck, well he looked like someone asked a dog to done recite Shakespeare.

Bob, he just shook is head. It ain’t enough to have an idea, you gotta have a plan: just ’cause you tie rockets to a monkey don’t mean he’s gonna be able to gather you no moon cheese, son.

BTB Holds the Zen Like a Baby Bird.

Bald Tire Bob, he was watching Matlock and sipping the ‘45, just letting the day slide a bit, and he got to thinkin’ that you can go crazy sometimes, thinkin’ you can control those things you just can’t control — it’s like being in the backseat of a car that ain’t no LeBaron and Big Chuck is driving with his salt all high.
Anyway, Bob, he thought that — even though a man can’t control everything — son, if he can control his temper an’ his bowels then he’s still doin’ fine, things considered.

BTB Hes Got The Keys For a Reason.

Bald Tire Bob, he was thinkin’ himself about how the world wasn’t much different than a fine Chrysler LeBaron, and in that LeBaron there are really only three places you can be: in the driver’s seat, in the passenger seat, or in the trunk. Now, no one drives Bob’s LeBaron but Bob, so that only leaves you two choices, son.

And — if you happen to find yourself in the trunk — well, you best not be helpin’ yourself to any of Bob’s Colt .45s there — there’s a tarp and a shovel in the trunk for a reason, just sayin’.

BTB Says You Need a LeBaron to Properly Understand, Son

Big Chuck, he was seeming a’be a bit down on his big self, like someone had stole all the Nutter Butter from between his cookie crunch when he wasn’t lookin’.

Bald Tire Bob, he did all what a friend could do: he kept the Colt .45 cold and kept the grass lobster all steamy-hot n’ tangy, and without the hard pointy nasty bits, but it didn’t seem to work much none, with Chuck still all moping like a man trying to sell left shoes to people who only had a right foot on ‘em, the world can be rough that way.

Bob shook his head; it’s just the way it is– one day you can be eatin’ pistachios n’ bacon and party’n with the drummer from Night Ranger, and the next night you’re all shot in the tater tots with a Taser while someone’s all up and yellin’ about a restraining order or some such.

Big Chuck, he just needs to realize it all comes around, and that the justice monkey, he swings himself from tree to tree, non-stop: even people with Tasers have been known to have accidents that no authority can quite right explain, you just gotta be patient, hope can be itself a bit skittish.

BTB, He Loves Himself a Parade.

Bald Tire Bob, he was looking at his Chrysler LeBarons of the 80s calendar and realized it was already halfway through June, meaning it was about the time for him to get to preparating for the Fourth of July. Now Bob, he ain’t much of a sentimental man but the Fourth of July, that’s special, there — if you don’t like the Fourth of July then perhaps you best go back to Belgium, son.

Anyhow, he figured he’d start the day at the diner with a Colt .45 and a slice of apple pie with bacon, because if there’s anything more American than apple pie then it’d have to be apple pie with bacon, no question.

After breakfast Bob figured to iron the flag and wax the tank all proper, with the shammy that has the image of Abraham Lincoln on it, it just appeared one day as he was shining the turret, looking all like Abe on the penny except from the other side.

So Bob, he went to ironing the flag and checked himself the stitching of all 49 stars cause you don’t want to be flying Old Glory and then have Ohio all fall off, that would be disrespectful. Some people, they ask Bob why he has only 49 stars on his flag, but any fool should know that Hawaii ain’t no real state, it ain’t but a couple of bumps in the ocean with some hotels and Hawaiians all on it: heck, it makes Rhode Island seem darn like Texas and that’s saying something there. Son, if Hawaii was 50 then you might as well make the Holiday Inn down by the interstate #51.

Let Bob learn you something here: the Big Guy in the Sky only put islands on the world to give the American troops a place to storm on their way to the bad guys, that’s History that ain’t taught you by no teacher from Massachusetts with all the bumper stickers on the car, not naming any names mind you. And who knows, next year it might only be 48 stars: California, it’s been giving Bald Tire Bob the suspicions, there.

So anyways, after ironing the flag Bald Tire Bob he waxed himself the tank to a fine gleaming shine, it would make Patton proud and scare a dozen hippies into taking themselves a bath, it was that good.

Yep, Bob he’d be himself ready to lead that Fourth of July parade all down Main Street. Of course, the town never does quite ask him to lead their parade, but when he shows up in his tank with the flag waving big and proud in the breeze they never quite say no, either.

BTB Appreciates Himself a Spring Night

Bald Tire Bob, he was sittin’ on the porch of the compound sippin’ himself a tasty cool treat and thinkin’ to himself that there ain’t much better on a warm spring day than an icy cold root beer float, it says “Come here, summer!” nice and bright.

Of course, the only thing better is having one of Bald Tire Bob’s Special Root Beer Floats. Mary Beth down at the wrecking yard, she makes a mean home-made root beer ice cream, its as good as her RC Cola Spaghetti Sauce if you’re askin’.

Anyhow, Mary Beth, she’s a bit sweet on ol’ Bob, she calls herself a “LeBaron Girl” –whenever she comes for a ride in Bob’s car she brings her own car seat cover, and that’s nice and thoughtful, that.

So anyway Bob scoops himself a scoop or three of that home-made root beer ice cream, puts it in an old pickle jar and then pours some icy cold Colt .45 all over it: Bob, he figures himself the only thing that could even put better on that would be to have a pet penguin, he’s sure the penguin would love himself an icy cold float, too. Then Bald Tire Bob, he could put the penguin all safe and snug in a child’s seat in the LeBaron and then go cruisin’ without a polar bear in sight, the penguin would like that just fine.

So Bob, he was thinkin’ that if a root beer float said “Come here, summer!” then a Bald Tire Bob’s Special Root Beer Float must be sayin’ “Come here summer and watch Mary Beth mow my lawn!” — when Mary Beth comes over she brings her own can of gasoline for the mower, and that’s pretty nice there, too.