So here I am, back on the ******* road and this time to the ******* South. I hate the ******* South especially in the ******* summer. I thought once the ****sucker, everyone else calls Jimmy, came back to Headquarters things would settle down and I wouldn’t have to leave again with the ******* Randy Thorpe. In fact, what the **** is Randy Thorpe still doing here? The mere sight of him drives me up the ******* wall.

So Jimmy’s eyes and ears, Randy Thorpe, and I got into our red piece of **** Dodge Stratus we rented from Enterprise and headed from the airport to a local watering hole in Savannah, Georgia to plan out our stratagem. Per usual, Randy drove and I sat shotgun. I tried to start a legitimate, civil conversation about the pointlessness of NASCAR with the ******* guy but Randy didn’t respond because Randy never ******* speaks because Randy is an ******* and we both stared forward as the cars passed us by. For being a former Navy Seal, Randy is a big, fat ***** when it comes to stepping on the gas pedal.

We pulled up to the bar, TiddilyWinks, and it’s a ******* dump. Inside, people were smiling and having a good time and I thought to myself “What the ****? You guys are missing teeth. How is it possible to smile and have a good time while missing teeth?” Amazed, I mazed my way through the crowd with Randy in tow and we headed towards the back of the establishment. We were here to meet someone, a contact.

I drew a piece of paper out of my olive-colored, wrinkle-free Dockers, memorized the name, stuffed the paper back in my pocket, walked up to the tank-top-wearing, barbed-wire-tattoo-sporting bodyguard, and said, “We’re here to see Stan.” He ******* mumbled something that sounded close to English but I couldn’t understand the ******* dialect and he then proceeded to pat us down for weaponry. Randy reluctantly relinquished the Ninja stars in his boots and I turned to him and said, “You carry Ninja ******* stars? Who carries Ninja ******* stars?” Randy offered nothing.

Defenseless, outside of Randy’s fists, we were led to a well-furnished room upstairs from that ******* dump of a bar. The door was closed behind us and we both looked down at the glorious shag carpet at our feet. As we looked up, Stan stood before us. At first glance, my initial impression of Stan was that he was a smaller version of actor Scott Bakula, great hair included, from the television show, “Quantum Leap,” which is one my all-time ******* favorites. He motioned for us to sit but I wanted to make this quick so I waved him off and said, “I want to make this quick.”

“Okay city slicker, quick it is. What do you want?” Stan asked.

“On behalf of Jimmy Conrad and Jimmy Conrad Enterprises, we are prepared to let you use his likeness for the NASCAR car that you own, preferably with his face on the hood.”

“I’m listening,” Stan murmured.

“We know this is a down economy and that your current sponsorship with Slim-Jim is coming to an end so we are prepared to give you this privilege for free. And believe me, this IS a privilege. Jimmy Conrad is the ******* man,” I offered with a straight face though I wanted to ******* vomit.

“I’ve heard of this guy. Good-looking right?” Stan inquired.

“It goes without saying,” I grudgingly acknowledged as Randy nodded. “We even have a few mottos in mind to put under his face on the car to give you the big picture of what we see going forward. What do you think of ‘As Hot As What’s Under The Hood’ or ‘Jimmy Conrad: He Knows How To Grease Your Wheels’?”

“Listen son, I like what I’m hearing but I can’t commit to anything right now. Times are tough,” Stan confirmed.

“No **** Stan,” I declared, breaking from my salesman persona. “We’re giving you this ******* product for free. We want this to be a reciprocal relationship. Jimmy gets the ******* recognition he deserves and you get to be associated with a pretty, cool mother******.”

Stan told me to get back to him and I said, “It’s now or never. I, err Jimmy, doesn’t ******* wait for anyone.”

After a thirty-second pause and a blank stare, Stan told us to get out of his office and never come back and so we left. As we got back in the car, Randy paused at the steering wheel, turned towards me, and said, “You did a really nice thing in there by standing up for Jimmy.”

“**** you, Randy,” I immediately replied and then after processing the moment and the months and months of our muted relationship I said, bewildered, “Wait, you talk?”

The views and opinions expressed in this column are those of the author’s, and not of the JimmyConrad.com staff (save for one) or of Jimmy Conrad, who felt a tinge of hope after reading that maybe, just maybe, Know-It-All Jones has a heart after all.

COMMENTS: NO