Delivery by Tacoma

Last Edit December 21, 1998

My older son, who barely tolerates my Fabio addiction, drove me to my operation.
His Tacoma.
4-Wheel drive on an on-ramp. (He claims it was "assist".)
It was misty.
"Tommy" likes to play. In mud.
Do I need to say I was jiggled and swayed all the way in?
I mention that my insides weren't doing too well. My purging is not quite complete.
"Not in my truck!" says he.
"Why not?" says I. "After all, I owe you. You got two cars, a rug, left footprints in my newly poured sidewalk and have just left muddy prints on my brand new white rug!" He had removed his shoes on arrival, then put them on to leave and proceeded to walk in for his coffee. A big black trail of mud behind him.
"I have a cork!" says he.
"Not fair!" say I.
Someday I will get even.
He asked if I wanted the air bags turned on.
Show off.
He can control his.
"Will they get me?" ask I. I am so taped up it probably would bounce off.
He shrugs.
"On!" say I. He's already run three lights.
"They were yellow," says he. "They were just turning. Shall I race the train?"
"No!" say I. Airbags may not hurt. Trains can.
I ponder a neat way to leave something behind.
Too late.
We have reached valet parking.
This is Stanford after all.
I have to pay.
He has no money.
What did I expect?