On Sun, 20 Jun 2004 13:44:08 GMT, something compelled Rick
, to say:

Jaxworld is truly a bizarre place

Jaxworld is a poorly lighted downstairs room in a seedy tract
house located in a dead end rust belt town. The kind of town
where young people with a clue abandon as quickly as possible,
leaving it to retired folk on pensions, the few that find gainful
employment providing goods and services to those retirees, and
dope smoking losers without enough ambition to take the minor
steps required to improve their lives.

Jaxworld has as its primary citizen, a fat goggle glassed
scraggle beard vaguely odoriferous male in his late twenties.
He's working at the same Shell station he started working in the
summer of his junior year, and has been promoted all the way to
night manager. This means he's in charge of washing the floors
and rest rooms, refilling the windshield cleaner buckets, and
scheduling the odd oil change or lube job for the next day when
the mechanic will be in. He has asked to *be* the mechanic, but
his constant arguing with the customers has made it clear that
it's better for them and for him to be placed as far from them as
possible. His title as manager is the default for what is
actually 'the only guy who's here at night, because there isn't
enough business to keep two people on'.

At eleven he closes up, balances the numbers on the pump with the
credit card receipts and cash, and stuffs it all into the slot in
the barrel safe for which he has no key, for the owner to review
the next morning. He stops by the late night diner to get a
double cheeseburger with bacon and a plate of greasy fries, the
same meal he has every night. The wait staff is generally polite
to him, except for the slightly overweight, mildly retarded
seventeen year old girl he obsessed over for a couple of months,
until her father stopped by the station one night with his
shotgun in the back window. Told him those things were always
going off by accident, and wouldn't it be a shame if it was
pointed at him when that happened? And that leaving his daughter
alone would be a good way to avoid an accident.

Jax makes it a point to not speak with the girl any more, but
that doesn't stop him from including her in his masturbatory
fantasies, along with the girls on the oil company calendars his
boss puts up in the employee washroom.

Jax pays for his meal, leaving a niggardly tip, and makes his way
home to his rented room. He was happy living in his parent's
house until at twenty three his father told him, yelled to him,
"Get the hell out and make something of yourself, boy!" as his
mother silently wept in the kitchen. She knew that he had to get
out, but she also knew that he was ill equipped for the real
world.

He boots his eMachine with the fifteen inch monitor he salvaged
from the high school scrap heap, s******ing to himself about how
they were so stupid to throw out a perfectly good piece of
equipment. So what if the red gun is dead? Windows95 finally
starts, the Pentium 133 processor making maximum use of all
thirty two megabytes of ram. The 14.4 modem wails its mating
call to the modem bank at his ISP, the newsreader takes its place
in RAM, and Jax is transformed from the fat greasy ****** he is
in real life to the highly educated, erudite, knowledgable being
he plays on usenet.

Unfortunately for him, much like the guy in the white jacket in
the aspirin commercials who states that he isn't a doctor but
plays one on TV, Jax can't completely fill out his usenet
character. His performance falls flat, and he has as much
success as he's had with the seventeen year old, or in fact any
other part of his life.

There it is. Jaxworld. Take off your hat and jacket, pull up a
chair, pop open a Pabst and set awhile.

If you have the stomach for it.

I first fixed engines professionally back before Kennedy was elected.

From: "Steve Daniels, Seek of Spam"
Date: 6/20/2004 1:03 PM Eastern Standard Time
Message-id:

On Sun, 20 Jun 2004 13:44:08 GMT, something compelled Rick
, to say:

Jaxworld is truly a bizarre place

Jaxworld is a poorly lighted downstairs room in a seedy tract
house located in a dead end rust belt town. The kind of town
where young people with a clue abandon as quickly as possible,
leaving it to retired folk on pensions, the few that find gainful
employment providing goods and services to those retirees, and
dope smoking losers without enough ambition to take the minor
steps required to improve their lives.

Jaxworld has as its primary citizen, a fat goggle glassed
scraggle beard vaguely odoriferous male in his late twenties.
He's working at the same Shell station he started working in the
summer of his junior year, and has been promoted all the way to
night manager. This means he's in charge of washing the floors
and rest rooms, refilling the windshield cleaner buckets, and
scheduling the odd oil change or lube job for the next day when
the mechanic will be in. He has asked to *be* the mechanic, but
his constant arguing with the customers has made it clear that
it's better for them and for him to be placed as far from them as
possible. His title as manager is the default for what is
actually 'the only guy who's here at night, because there isn't
enough business to keep two people on'.

At eleven he closes up, balances the numbers on the pump with the
credit card receipts and cash, and stuffs it all into the slot in
the barrel safe for which he has no key, for the owner to review
the next morning. He stops by the late night diner to get a
double cheeseburger with bacon and a plate of greasy fries, the
same meal he has every night. The wait staff is generally polite
to him, except for the slightly overweight, mildly retarded
seventeen year old girl he obsessed over for a couple of months,
until her father stopped by the station one night with his
shotgun in the back window. Told him those things were always
going off by accident, and wouldn't it be a shame if it was
pointed at him when that happened? And that leaving his daughter
alone would be a good way to avoid an accident.

Jax makes it a point to not speak with the girl any more, but
that doesn't stop him from including her in his masturbatory
fantasies, along with the girls on the oil company calendars his
boss puts up in the employee washroom.

Jax pays for his meal, leaving a niggardly tip, and makes his way
home to his rented room. He was happy living in his parent's
house until at twenty three his father told him, yelled to him,
"Get the hell out and make something of yourself, boy!" as his
mother silently wept in the kitchen. She knew that he had to get
out, but she also knew that he was ill equipped for the real
world.

He boots his eMachine with the fifteen inch monitor he salvaged
from the high school scrap heap, s******ing to himself about how
they were so stupid to throw out a perfectly good piece of
equipment. So what if the red gun is dead? Windows95 finally
starts, the Pentium 133 processor making maximum use of all
thirty two megabytes of ram. The 14.4 modem wails its mating
call to the modem bank at his ISP, the newsreader takes its place
in RAM, and Jax is transformed from the fat greasy ****** he is
in real life to the highly educated, erudite, knowledgable being
he plays on usenet.

Unfortunately for him, much like the guy in the white jacket in
the aspirin commercials who states that he isn't a doctor but
plays one on TV, Jax can't completely fill out his usenet
character. His performance falls flat, and he has as much
success as he's had with the seventeen year old, or in fact any
other part of his life.

There it is. Jaxworld. Take off your hat and jacket, pull up a
chair, pop open a Pabst and set awhile.

If you have the stomach for it.

There it is. Jaxworld. Take off your hat and jacket, pull up a
chair, pop open a Pabst and set awhile.

I believe Mary Pabst is dead. Anyway, she was one loony woman, a
much-to-avoid.

some people are weak from the get-go, gene. most don't brag about it though.

a little weak in the arm, are you gene?


perhaps because I don't spend as much time "building up that muscle"
as you do....

--



Grady-White Gulfstream, out of Southport, NC.

actually gene, I taught him much of what he knew about mechanics while we were
still in junior and senior high school (I worked as a professinal mechanic
starting the summer I was twelve years old, my father owned the place).

The year after high school he earned his license. When he was drafted, the
military thought so much of his license they made him a rifleman.

After he got out of the service he used his license to earn a living for a
period of time, but quit the aircraft business to earn a much better living
pounding nails as a carpenter.

I'm a certificated aircraft mechanic and factory trained

a high school buddy of mine had one of those licenses before his 19th
birthday.
How many years did it take you to get yours?


It certainly didn't take me nineteen years.

I'm not sure what went wrong in your life, Jax... from what you say,
your friend finally became mechanically proficient and knowledgeable
and, well, I guess you took "the other road." Sorry about that,
Jax....

Perhaps you could call your friend and he could set you straight. He
could draw pictures and be more detailed than I have been....

It seems oil was not covered in the class you took.

Probably not the same oil that you remember from your school daze....
was that vegetable oil from Home Ec? or do you only remember sex ed?
Oh, the Speedos..... that must be it! Ok, Jax, we do *not* lube
engines with Motion Lotion........

Please see your high school buddy for clarification and a
refresher....

--



Grady-White Gulfstream, out of Southport, NC.

http://myworkshop.idleplay.net/cavern/ Homepage
http://www.southharbourvillageinn.com/directions.asp Where Southport,NC
is located.
http://www.southharbourvillageinn.linksysnet.com Real Time
Pictures at My Marina
http://www.thebayguide.com/rec.boats Rec.boats
at Lee Yeaton's Bayguide

On 21 Jun 2004 00:24:55 GMT, (JAXAshby) wrote:

actually gene, I taught him much of what he knew about mechanics while we were
still in junior and senior high school (I worked as a professinal mechanic
starting the summer I was twelve years old, my father owned the place).

Oh boy!

You were so certain I failed 3rd grade, and now it occurs you dropped
out of school when you were 12!

Hehe.



Remco

yup rem co nos, you did not graduate third grade. at least that is obvious if
your thinking never improved beyond what you conclude below.

actually gene, I taught him much of what he knew about mechanics while we
were
still in junior and senior high school (I worked as a professinal mechanic
starting the summer I was twelve years old, my father owned the place).

Oh boy!

You were so certain I failed 3rd grade, and now it occurs you dropped
out of school when you were 12!

Hehe.



Remco

On 20 Jun 2004 20:21:36 GMT, something compelled
(JAXAshby), to say:

I first fixed engines professionally back before Kennedy was elected.

For which we have only your word.

I'll bet the piece I wrote entertained a lot more people than
anything *you* ever wrote.

my entire post, quoted for no apparent reason, snipped
--

You would not know someone who writes well
if you hit you in the groin.

Stephen Hauskins 2/4/98

gee, thanks, steivee little boy.

sorry, but I ain't interest no how in any fagot types.




Spam"
Date: 6/20/2004 9:39 PM Eastern Standard Time
Message-id:

On 20 Jun 2004 20:21:36 GMT, something compelled
(JAXAshby), to say:

I first fixed engines professionally back before Kennedy was elected.

For which we have only your word.

I'll bet the piece I wrote entertained a lot more people than
anything *you* ever wrote.

my entire post, quoted for no apparent reason, snipped
--

You would not know someone who writes well
if you hit you in the groin.

Stephen Hauskins 2/4/98