Chevy Monza

The Bob and Tom Show has been asking listeners to submit stories about their first car. Here’s mine.

My first car was a 1979 Chevrolet Monza. One cold day I discovered I was unable to move the lever to the defrost setting.

I told my dad who was a car expert, who looked under the dash.

A few minutes later, he said, “I’ll be go to hell.”

He hands me a silver metal box. We looked inside and found rolling papers, a few small pipes and a guitar-shaped key that turned into a roach clip when you squeezed it.

We had just discovered the previous owner’s stash box.

At the dinner table he showed my mom and brothers what we had found. Then he started fumbling through the box searching for something.

He looked at me and asked, “Where’s that guitar thing?”

“On my keychain,” I replied.

“Give it back.”

The defroster worked fine after that day. But I never found another guitar-shaped roach clip.

Here in my car
I feel safest of all
I can lock all my doors
It’s the only way to live in cars


I don’t have a lot of romantic Valentine’s Day stories. That’s because I usually try to break-up with girlfriends around birthdays and holidays.

Hey, don’t laugh. I’ve managed to save a ton of money over the years using this method. And by save, I mean blew at the track.

But one year in college I met this girl right before the lover’s holiday. She seemed normal. You know, except for the Rick Springfield posters plastered on every square inch of her dorm room wall.

Anyway, I invited her over for a VD dinner. I baked some pre-packaged chicken cordon bleu, complimented with two bottles of Mad Dog 20/20.


What’s even better is I passed the entrée off as homemade, and poured the Mad Dog into an empty bottle of a more desirable wine. I think it was Riunite.

Don’t judge. Just let me finish. That’s what she said.

“I had no idea you were such a great cook,” she said during dinner.

“Oh, it was nothing, but thanks. More wine?”

“Yes, please. This wine is wonderful.”

I’m not going to say what was served for desert. But I’m glad I had added whipped cream to the shopping list.

Fast forward three days…

I was able to avoid contact by ignoring phone calls, and not going near her dorm.

I know – what a dick. Did I mention the Rick Springfield posters?

And then later that night – BAM! There she was – standing on my doorstep.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” she asked.

“Sure, come in.” I replied.

We walked into my bedroom where she began to cry.

“Why haven’t you returned any of my calls?”

“I’ve been busy studying for a couple of tests, and working on a computer lab project.”

Liar, liar, penis on fire.

“Well, I need to tell you something,” she mumbled in between sobs.

“What is it?”

“I had a miscarriage.”

Okay, let me stop right here. I’m no vagina doctor, but I’m pretty sure women can’t get pregnant and then lose a baby – in 3 days!

In addition, I’m 99% certain my boys can’t swim. Either that or I’m the luckiest SOB to ever walk a college campus.

I just gave her a big hug, and told her I was sorry. And then I walked her crazy ass to the door.

What a whack job.

Hey, remind me to tell you about the time a chick shredded my Bon Jovi cassette tape into little pieces – and then threw it on my porch with an evil note.

Never mind. I’ll remember.

You need coolin’. Baby I’m not foolin’. I’m gonna send ya, back to schoolin’.

Tom's Tuna

Shop at Sam’s Club much?

I want to thank Tom d G for hosting the Super Bowl Party this year – and for supplying the endless amount of vodka and Jaeger shots.

Needless to say, I didn’t pay close attention to the game. Shit, I had to get on the internet the next day to check the box score.

Drink – I said box.

Now we gear up for the trip to California in March to visit King’s crew. Developing…

I had dinner last night with a college buddy who was in town on business. It’s funny how people remember a story about you that you have no memory of ever happening.

“You going to drop acid on dead day again this year?” he asked.

“What are you talking about?” I replied.

“Don’t you remember the night before finals when you took a hit of acid in the back of that truck?”

“No, but that might explain why I couldn’t find my Economics class the next morning.”

“Well, maybe it wasn’t acid. You might have eaten some mushrooms.”

“I’m pretty sure the type of hallucinogenic is irrelevant.”

“How did you do on that test?”

“Funny Bone has open mic nights on Tuesdays. You should come back into town and give it a try.”

Lysergic acid diethylamide is the scientific name for LSD. I learned that in chemistry lab. Wink.

You’re bringing up times I can’t recall. And I’m sure they made your point. But I just can’t seem to remember, yeah.

Bitch Creek Beer

This looks like a pretty good ice breaker.

A couple of things tonight…first I want to go over the relationship advice I received from Issac.

I don’t want to go into a lot of detail, but last weekend I puked on a woman’s area rug. Now, I’ve dated some women for years, some for months, and others for weeks. Shit, I’ve even dated a few for minutes. Wink.

But I’ve never had a relationship turn from good to bad in such a short period of time. A week has gone by, and she has agreed to give us a fresh start.

Now for the advice from Issac – “You should tell her that she overreacted. That’s all.”

“Okay, let me get this straight. I puked on the woman’s rug. She watched me do it, and was completely disgusted. She spent hours cleaning it. She has agreed to give me another chance. And you think I should tell her that she just overreacted. Is that right?”


“That is quite possibly the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“I’m just saying.”

The other item on my plate tonight is the cab ride I had on Wednesday. I was over-served once again, and asked the bartender to call me a cab.

The guy arrived in about a half hour, and I got into the back seat. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“Westport. Just take the Page Extension to Bennington, and go left,” I replied.

“Where exactly are you going?”


“What’s the address?”

“You know what? – Just drop me off at the YMCA at the top of the hill. Is that good enough for you?”

He took off, and I started popping off jokes about Tiger. “How many swings did Tiger’s wife take at him? She said, ‘I’m not really sure. Put me down for a five.'”

He mumbled something about me being a racist, and I guess that’s when I passed out.

I woke up to find this jack-off driving me through the streets of North St. Louis City.

“Are you smoking crack?” I asked.

“Hey, you didn’t tell me where you wanted to go, so I’m just driving.”

“I told you to take me to Westport; not the f’n hood you dumb fuck.”

When we made it onto Broadway, I told him to pull over. “I see the meter says I owe you $65,” I said.

“Yeah, it’s still running.”

“You are out of your f’n mind if you think I’m paying you.” And then I got out of the cab and slammed the door.

The mf’er didn’t come after me, but I found myself walking the streets of downtown at 1:30 in the morning.

Thankfully, I was able to find another cab on The Landing. “Can you take me to Westport?” I asked.


I prayed the entire way home. I finally felt safe when we passed the airport. And the other cab driver better pray I never run into his punk ass again.

But it’s too late to say you’re sorry. How would I know, why should I care? Please don’t bother trying to find her. She’s not there.

Deep Fried Turkey in Parking Lot

Back when I was dating Doggie Style (DS) – around ’96 or ’97 – we spent Thanksgiving at my parents’ house.

After dinner, me and my brothers were in the kitchen doing dishes. My mom had delegated this chore in exchange for our meals. I don’t think she trusted our cleaning habits, though, because she stayed to supervise.

My dad was taking a nap in his recliner. My grandma was watching TV with DS, who was rocking my 1-year old niece to sleep.

My dad had one of those huge satellite dishes that got every channel on the planet. I guess DS didn’t like the program they were watching, so she began to surf through the channels.

All of a sudden I heard a scream, and rushed into the living room to see what was going on. My dad was waking up from his nap. My grandma’s eyes were glued to the television, and DS was begging me to pick up the remote on the floor, while she clutched my niece.

I looked at the TV to find a naked chick on all-fours getting every hole filled by a cock. I’m mean, this was a straight-up gang bang she had stumbled upon.

I quickly grabbed the remote, and turned off the TV.

But I never forgave DS for that day. Not because she had subjected my grandma to hardcore porn – but because my dad put a password on the porn channels after we left.

Get yourself an egg and beat it.

Gangsta BennyGangsta Issac

Who has more street cred?

Some days have more meaning than others, especially after you’ve lost someone close to you. But it’s important to remember the good times, and let the bad ones go.

Here, let me give you an example:


Good Time:

Our family met in Panama City Beach a month before he passed away. Late one Saturday afternoon, he told me and Lil’ Bro that he wanted to go fishing.

Middle Bro already had the boat out on the ocean. Dad called his cell phone, and told him to meet us at the marina in an hour.

We headed out – Lil’ Bro was driving – I was riding shotgun – and dad was in the back.

The silence was broken when the guy in the back said, “Daddy’s drunk.”

“How did you get drunk? You were with mom by the pool all day. And she’d kick your ass if she knew you were drinking,” I replied.

“I spent most of my day drinking beer with the guys. What? Did you think we were actually grilling something over there?”

“Well, that explains why you didn’t kiss her good-bye.”

“Hey, stop by the store! We need some bait!” he yelled from the back seat.

And by bait, he meant beer.

When we finally made it to the marina, Middle Bro was waiting for us.

“Where have you guys been?” he asked.

“Ask dad,” I replied.

Once we were out on the water, Middle Bro explained how he had taken a shit over the side of the boat.

“No, you didn’t,” I told him.

“Do you see my socks?”


Bad Time:

Dad came home from work to find me chasing Lil’ Bro around the house. Oh, and Lil’ Bro was clutching his piggy bank.

You see, back when ESPN first hit the airwaves, they would replay college basketball games the following afternoon.

Lil’ Bro was unaware of the programming lineup – so we would bet on the games – and I’d always give him just a couple of points less than he needed to cover the spread.

When his greenbacks finally ran out, I had to strong-arm his ass to pay up. That’s when dad walked in. He grounded me for a week, and made me give back the money.

That night at dinner, Lil’ Bro just smirked at me across the table, while shoveling tuna casserole into his mouth.

I wonder who he likes tonight.

So many things I wanna say to him. But I just placed a rose on his grave, and I talk to the wind.

$1 BJ

Lil’ Bro was in Vegas over the weekend. He was telling me about the restaurants and night clubs they went to. I had no idea Las Vegas offered that type of entertainment. Whenever I’ve been there, the only things I saw were gaming tables and sports books.

That got me thinking about my trips to the desert:

You always remember your first – trip to Vegas, that is.

I was selling used cars at the time. I didn’t do it for the money. I just enjoyed the great reputation that came with the job. I was supposed to work on Saturdays, but spent one Friday night getting over-served at a Joe “King” Carrasco show.

My boss was pretty pissed when I didn’t show up for work. But when you’re young – and hungover – things like that don’t really bother you.

Anyway, a buddy stopped by to see if I wanted to go to the dog track. I went because, hey, I needed to cash my last paycheck somewhere.

Long story short – we split a $12k tri-super jackpot.

I booked a flight for me and another buddy that night. We spent the next 18 hours drinking and gambling until the Sunday red-eye took us home.

I walked into the Monday morning sales meeting like a rock star. And no, they didn’t fire me.

I went for a friend’s bachelor party. I almost lost my entire bankroll at the roulette table before I checked into the room. I also missed an 8-team parlay when the Yankees beat the Mariners in extra innings. Had the Mariners won, my $5 wager would have paid over $1,200. Stupid Yankees.

Me and Doggie Style went there in July for a long weekend. You can get pretty good rates during the summer. And as long as you don’t mind temperatures in the 120’s, you can have a pretty good time.

I met some buddies for Super Bowl XXXII. All of us took advantage of the generous 11-point spread given to the Broncos – and parlayed them with the Over (47). Cha Ching! Payday.

We also saw John Mellencamp the night before at the Hard Rock.

But the best part of the weekend was early Sunday morning when we were saving our seats in the sports book. Red was nowhere to be found. And then he showed up with In-N-Out Burgers for everyone. The people around us thought we had won a Keno jackpot, or something.

I went to a convention at the newly opened Venetian. I gave my ATM and credit cards to my boss because I was there for one thing – work.

Then I slipped a $20 bill in the video poker machine while waiting for a beer – and got a Royal Flush that paid $4k.

The remaining three days are a blur, but I learned a few things:

– Pit bosses remember your name when you win

– Most employers don’t like it when you do tequila shots in the trade show booth

– It’s hard to hit a golf ball when you have the shakes

– The pretty girl flirting with you can sometimes be a hooker

I took Drunkie Drunk on this trip. I won $1,500 on a slot machine the first night. And after the air-conditioning didn’t work in our room at the Sahara – and I peed in her shoe – we moved to the Rio.

I got her a new pair of shoes and a Swedish massage after we checked in. That was money well spent because her spa visit bought me a couple of hours to myself. And I didn’t spend it reading by the pool.

We stopped by the sports book the next day to see if I had earned any comps. The pit boss grabbed his clipboard and instead of just saying, “Yes,” he recapped the amount of money I pushed through the windows the night before.

FYE – It was a rather large amount.

Drunkie Drunk didn’t talk to me during dinner. But I didn’t care. I just enjoyed my complimentary filet mignon and baked potato – while playing a Deuces Wild machine.

Lights so bright. Palm sweat, blackjack on a Saturday night

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