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I swear this looks better than the one Vern Vandervort bought brand new off the showroom floor of Jackrabbit Jeep back in January of 1960.

The darn thing reminded Vern so much of his wife, Velma, that he knew it was the one for him. The ‘face’ on the front of it was a dead ringer for Velma. When he lifted the cover between the seats and saw it had a Super Hurricane Six, the deal was sealed. Every time Velma opened her mouth a hurricane of insults would be hurled in his direction. He knew she’d even hate the color.

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Velma was a woman to be reckoned with. Vern knew she’d hate everything about the truck, making its selection even more satisfying. He had perfected the concept of ‘passive-aggressive’ before it was even given a name.

Vern would load up the Jeep with wooden crates full of tomatoes, peppers, onions, and corn all raised right there on his place out north of Fort Stockton on Old Brown Dirt Road and head to the Piggly Wiggly on almost a daily basis during growing seasons. The fact that the FC-170 was on the slow side was just an added benefit. The more time he could spend in the field or on the road, the less time he had to listen to Velma loudly and forcefully enumerate his multitude of inadequacies.

A stop at the Lucky Lady Lounge for a Lone Star Longneck or three on the way home was not uncommon.

One day after returning from town and parking the Jeep in the cool shade of the old red barn, Velma marched over from the battered clapboard farmhouse demanding an explanation as to what had taken him so long to get back home. Bossie, Vern’s cantankerous old mule, apparently had about enough of Velma’s discourse and reared up her hind legs and kicked Velma right square in the head. Velma crossed her eyes and dropped to the ground faster than a fat kid on a teeter-totter, deader than a doornail.

Three days later, the funeral service was held over at the Fort Stockton Second Baptist Church. Brother Bob couldn’t help but notice after the service that every time one of the women would come over to offer her condolences Vern would nod his head up and down. However, when each of the men would come over and whisper words of comfort, Vern would shake his head back and forth.

As the congregation was headed down to the basement of the church for a hot-dish buffet and cat-head muffins, Brother Bob stopped Vern and asked him, “Why did you shake your head up and down to the women and back and forth to the men?”

“Well,” responded Vern, “all the ladies told me how nice Velma looked laid out in the dress I picked out for her to be buried in. All the men who stopped by asked me if the mule was for sale.”

Vern took to making fresh hot sauce using the produce he grew right there on the farm. The jalapeño peppers he grew gave it a real kick, and the picture of Bossie on the label, just under the brandname, ‘Kick-Ass Salsa,’ made it a sure fire hit. Before long, business spread to points way past Fort Stockton, all the way into the Panhandle and beyond. Additional delivery drivers were hired. He ended up going back to Jackrabbit Jeep to buy a couple more FC-170 Stake Beds. 

Vern let Vonda, his new girlfriend, pick out the colors. Ol’ Bossie was in tall cotton the rest of her years here on earth, and still lives on in spirit on the label of every jar of Kick-Ass Salsa. Brother Bob, after meeting Vonda at the Lucky Lady one evening, commented, “Perhaps the wrong ass is featured on the salsa jars.”

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