while out like scouts on a new route, the wrightsville beach chapter of Bojon apparently ran into some car trouble this past weekend.
here's the report sent in by colonel white:
Cox simply says," Ya gotta give it gas."
Holding back all comments such as "Cox, is that a clip-on tie you're wearing?" I say, "My brother, I've known about the gas peddle since I was about 12 in driver's Ed, and that aint gonna do it."
Needless to say, givin' gas to the old julip did nothing to change the fact that this once "Nascar-like" taurus wasn't gettin' us back home.
I crept the thing into the parkin' lot beside Redix. Done. After waitin' some 45 minutes for the cab that supposedly had been called by the Yam, the Yam dials none other than his dad. Dr. Pete...so sorry to wake you, sir...
At this point it is approachin' 4:30 a.m. Brown and I are indulging in the Baja Mexican burrito that we acquired earlier in the night. Shroeds has decided not to wait for the cab or Dr. Pete and sets out on the journey walkin' to the Cox family domain, only to be picked up by the good doctor after he corraled the rest of us.
anyway, i did manage to get a chucle out of Dr. Pete on the way home by saying, "Dr. Cox, we'll probably still be calling you when we're sixty to have you come pick us up." He agreed, in his own way, that this was probably true.
very nice, fellas. at least you didn't have to ride in a paddy wagon with these guys...
