The Madison High rocket science club.

"Astle, did anyone ever tell you that you are a worthless bleeper? You are so bleeping stupid that I am convinced you don't know your right hand from your left...Duh!" My old high school chum Arthole was an obnoxious bastard to say the least. "Jesus, I will be married with five kids before you get that thing changed. What is wrong with you boy? Are you mentally challenged?" The more he needled at me the more nervous I became. "OK Maestro! If you're so bleeping smart, why don't you do it?" I then threw the wrench I was holding at him. The task of changing the starter in my 1960 Ford Falcon station wagon had become more than I bargained for.

"I am positive that you are destined to be a rocket scientist one of these days Astle. That's if you can ever manage to graduate from high school." Listening to Arthole flap his mouth while he replaced the starter in my car was driving me bonkers. But I didn't want to piss him off. I needed the starter replaced and he was the guy to do it. "Einstein" he called me, "All you have to do is unscrew the screws, take the old starter off, put the new starter on and then screw the old screws back in. You would think a guy who is destined to be a rocket scientist would know that...Duh!"

I started the car after he finished and it purred like a kitty. He then closed the hood and said, "It's no wonder why you don't have a girlfriend. You are so bleeping stupid, you wouldn't know what to do with one anyways." The starter was replaced and the car was running. What did I need him for? "Bleep you Arthole!" I yelled as I locked the passenger side door, "Who's the idiot now? Bleep you!" I then threw the car in drive and sped away, leaving him covered in a cloud of dust and rocks.

"Get back here you bleeping bleephole! I am going to kick your ass! Astle get back here!" I kept stopping the car at hundred yard intervals. Once he got five yards or so from the car I would take off again. After the third time he became angry and threw a rock at the car, shattering the back windshield. For the next six months I drove around town with a couple of garbage bags plastered over the damage. Here's the part of the story I think is funny. When I explained to my dad what had happened to the back windshield, he looked at me, shook his head and said, "Arthole is right about you - you are never going to be a rocket scientist."