An Irish Mother

My GTO was always parked the same way in the garage every night and I always kept the mileage written down because my job had me traveling a lot, not to mention I had a teenage son at home that would stare at it like it was the hottest girl in school and he was gonna take her out one night and prove to her why she should be with him. One key was with me and the other, well the other was with my hot tempered Irish mother in the bottom of her purse. A place we both thought would be one of the safest in the world for it. For to even contemplate reaching into her most sacred of items and digging to the bottom to find anything when you were not authorized to do so was in its self a way to ensure the wrath of God in the form of a four foot eleven inch tall woman to come down upon you. To actually do such a heinous act was not only stupid, but signing your own death warrant.

The balls on this kid…

I was gone two nights but by the time I got back from New York I found my "Precious" not only parked incorrectly but sporting two hundred brand new hard earned miles on her beautiful red gauges. The wall of denial created by my son and his two cousins came crumbling down quickly when they learned of the traps set for them in the warmth and safety of the garage she lived in. The way it was parked, the picture of the mileage on my phone and of course the way the driver’s seat was set.

Her weakened two thousand pound clutch told a tale of abuse and hardship I could only imagine had taken her down the awful roads of Ohio’s killer potholes and white trash Bubba's in their old rusted out shit box IRocs pulling up next to them screaming, “Let’s run ‘em Bitch!”

My girl was now tainted and scarred as the boys finally opened up and told tales of the long night in question. How they raced all comers on the highways and byways of my home town with the 475 horsepower found under her hood. How they buried the throttle until the speedometer and RPMs were screaming for mercy, dropping it into third at seventy miles an hour just to see if they could get the rear end loose, (they did). Destroying the brand new rubber I had just installed the week before doing burnout after burnout. How they felt like total badasses. All in the car I was supposed to be doing that in.

I felt betrayed and lawless as I contemplated how I would punish each one of them. Dragging them behind said vehicle on a skid plate as I burned rubber myself onto their faces? By strapping them each down and pulling their toe nails and finger nails out with pliers, very slowly then adding salt to the wounds? O.k. too demonic. By taking a sledge hammer to each of their vehicles and leaving no body panel untouched by it? Would anyone noticed on the shit boxes they drove? Probably not.

I struggled for hours in my mind for the perfect punishment to dole out to these animals, these heathens, these blasphemers of the guy code, destroyers of trust. I wanted blood! I wanted Vengeance! I wanted them to be so scared they peed themselves!

And then it dawned on me. Tell my mother how they got the key.



It will sort itself out…