writer: Dr. Vern
I killed a Jeep. A running, living Jeep went to the great wrecking yard in the sky because of me. When first driven into the garage, it needed only some minor work (the Jeep, not the garage). Several frustrating years later, it was unloaded at a fire-sale price. With three Jeeps in my possession but only one in roadworthy condition, more time was spent wrenching instead of riding. Rather than becoming the world's best Jeep like originally planned, it had morphed into a never-ending project. It's a sad fact of life that basket-case projects only sell for pennies on the dollar, no matter how much has been invested in parts. To add insult to injury, I turned a profit selling my other project Jeep. The key was that one had pretty much been left alone since the day it was dragged home.
Allow me to shift gears for a moment, if you will. When first invited to join this fabled periodical, I understood the editor had a choice. He could publish a blank page in the back of his Jeep magazine, or he could let me have free reign within the same space. With nothing to lose, I've poked fun at nearly everything and everybody in the wide world of Jeeps, myself included. Treating this space as the equivalent of sitting around a campfire with good friends, I've even told a few whoppers over the years. No, really, it's true. I know that's hard to believe, seeing that I'm known for my honesty, integrity, and also having invented the Internet. Oops, I did it again. So let's set the record straight about things I've said in the past and might say in the future.
First, I am not responsible for inventing the Jeep. If I ever make claims to the contrary, history books have all the details, and my name isn't in there. Also, I'm not sure how this rumor ever got started, but I didn't teach Robert Cray how to play guitar. Likewise, Richard Thompson didn't learn from me, either. As flattering as those tales would be, there is another story that I must squelch before it becomes accepted as fact. I have no idea how this rumor reared its ugly head, but I am not responsible for the song "Afternoon Delight." You remember the tune - so dangerous because it could stick in your mind for weeks and resist all attempts to dislodge it. Whatever you do, avoid humming the melody or even thinking of the lyrics: "Gonna find my baby, gonna hold her tight ..."
Of course, I'll never again be able to poke fun at guys who bog down and flounder with a Jeep project, having crossed over to the dark side myself. Before the Jeep left on the lonely flatbed, I had time to look back over some of my work. Much like an anthropologist studying some ancient culture, I could determine my state of mind at different times during the project.
For example, some of my endeavors clearly dated from the "Nothing but the Best" stage. For the drivetrain swap, the various brackets I built were literal works of art. All sorts of gaskets and seals had been carefully replaced. For the first time in history, this was going to be the Jeep that didn't leak.
As might be imagined, that phase didn't last too long. There was plenty of evidence from my "Git 'Er Done" phase. Did bolt holes really need to line up perfectly? There's a reason manufacturers make big tubs of auto body filler, right? Parts were just going to rust again in the future, weren't they? After considering my dismal rate of progress, the project moved firmly into the "Despair" stage. From there, it was only a short jaunt into the "Storage" stage, when boxes were piled on top of the skeletal Jeep. After that, it didn't take much prodding to swallow my pride and call a friend to take her away.
Believe it or not, it was a relief to see the Jeep go. Now I know enough to stick to just one Jeep. As I was proofreading my column (I take great pride in avoiding any mispellings), I realized something else equally important. It was cruel to have left the song "Afternoon Delight" stuck in the minds of my loyal readers. What can I do to make you forget that song? Maybe this will help: "If you like Pia Coladas ..."