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regulators - > Bakersfield Sound -> The Lards part 1" will travel into the dark underworld of Bako-field, dark secrets of Bakos' Scooter Pie eating past. The Final Chapter comes this week!
The Lards part 1" will travel into the dark underworld of Bako-field, dark secrets of Bakos' Scooter Pie eating past. The Final Chapter comes this week!

The  Lards part 1" will travel into the dark underworld of Bako-field, dark secrets of Bakos' Scooter Pie eating past. The Final Chapter comes this week!

 

 

LARDS PART 1      ( CHAPTER 1)


West Hollywood, 1977, California, USA    

                                   

(1)     As the movie, War of the Gauguin II®., twinkled towards it’s harry end, Chubsy Wubsy giggled. A mas of empty candy wrappers and pop-corn fragments hovered beneath his blubbery set of chins -his ravenous mouth dropping crumbs with each chew cycle  - and the copious m & m debris, his booming fart cast echos across the theater; the  smell of the flatulence caused Fatty Theirbuckle to announce: “smells like Scooter Pies®.” ! All chewing stopped on a dime. If it were not for the  War of the Gauguin II®, you could have heard the proverbial pin drop. At the time Scooter Pies®. and Moon Pies®. were not available in West Hollywood and the two chubby teens had no car. Chubsy was the first to make the daring proposal, but fatty was thinking it.  Bakersfield!®. exclaimed Chubsy. Fatty repeated the name under his breath several times with a honey glazed® stare.

Chubsy knew Fatty was just learning the ropes, Their was a lot more Chubsy wanted to teach the young Moon-pie® hunter. Chubsy still had some popcorn, candy and half a hot dog left. It was a bag shoved is his left pocket. He took the bag out and poured the remains, the equivalent of about one fat shovel-full, into his mouth. Fatty wanted to learn to be a master but he didn’t know how to talk to Chubsy, he felt almost insignificant near him - after all, this was the grand master.
Fatty took a shot at speaking to him, “ Mr Wubsy, why do a lot of great snack foods have great jingle songs but not Moon Pies?” Chubsy paused as in deep thought, the darkness of the night showing off his massive silhouette, and then he said with great reverence “ According to food historians, manufactured marshmallow cake and cookie treats were first marketed to the American public in the early decades of the 20th century. These most likely descended from Victoria sandwich cakes. Advances in technology made marshmallow products of all kinds readily available to the American public. Products proliferated.    The History of the Great American Moon-Pie®. is rather obscure, however,   In his book, "The Great American MoonPie®. Handbook", Mr. Dickson had written of the MoonPie's® lost history. Not long after his book was published, he received a telephone call from Earl Mitchell, Jr., identifying his deceased father, Earl Mitchell, Sr., as the person responsible for the invention of the MoonPie®.  You see, said Chubsy, you don’t write a jingle for an American institution like the Moon-pie®    

Chubsy turned slowly to Fatty , “ Im ready to skip West Hollywood for the big smelly town over the mountains that he knew was shrouded by smog and cow airborne  particulate matter, with Hostess® and Little Debbie® outlets on every street corner.   In Bakersfield, by the late 1950's, the MoonPie® had grown in popularity, so much that the bakery did not have the resources available to produce anything else. The phrase "RC Cola® and a MoonPie®" became well known around the Bakersfield area, as many people enjoyed this delicious, bargain-priced combination. They were so popular store clerks at Floyd’s ® and Montgomery Wards® could not keep the treats in stock.  Moon Pie®  By 1977, Bakersfield was known as the Moon-pie® Mecca
     
   

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LARDS PART 1                 & nbsp;       &n bsp;       &nb sp;       &nbs p;         ;     
CHAPTER 2  -EDITED  FOR FAMILY READING-

 (Geeting to Bakersfield,  known as the Moon-pie® Mecca. )


“Hey fat boy, want some chow?” came a voice from an ice cream - snack truck that had just pulled up. Fatty stood in the burger parking lot, his hands in his left pocket, belly hunched, and with the hungry look on his face that Chubsy told him to always have. “Be the damn Porky Pig ®”
Chubsy had told him. 

“Who?”

“I dunno. Some dead cartoon pig with a star on the WB ® toons walk of fame.”

“What kind of snacks you got?” Fatty said hogishly to the driver/vendor.

“I got the sweet, carbo stuff. I got twinkies-soft and sweet. Whatever. You look like an obese kid, kinda hungry though”

“Oh I ain’t hungry. I am full! That last 24 pack of ding-dongs hit the spot.” 

“Maybe you’re hungry for something moon shaped?”       

At that point the snack truck driver made his move, “Okay fat boy, no more messin’ around.  Get in the back of the truck.  The Mayor of Bakersfield is holding a Moon-pie ® eating contest at the Bakersfield bell tower tomorrow and I need you to win it for me!”  
                                       
“Fatty looked astounded, why didn’t you just say so!”  And into the rear of the snack truck, it listed to the lft, it was a converted old Helms Bakery ® jobber,  . The truck sped off like a bat out off hell, nicely packed, to hold in freshness and goodness,  food snacks were flying everywhere.    At one time, not long ago, a fleet of 300 Helms Bakery ® vans cruised the neighborhoods of the Los Angeles area summoning people with their distinctive whistles to purchase bread and pastries. The center of this operation was the Helms Bakery ® building on Venice Boulevard in Culver City (still located there with original Helms logo ®). The company, founded by Paul Helms in 1931, eventually succumbed to competition from emerging supermarkets and closed in 1969. Still today, an independently operated former Helms Bakery ® truck, perhaps the last, cruises the neighborhoods of Montebello, tooting its whistle and offering bread and pastries.

The old truck was jamming, I think it might have hit 45 mph on one decline near Lake Castaic. Was it the truck or the extra ballast? No one will ever know for sure.  It was getting late and the odd couple had just reached the summit of the 5 Interstate on the Grape-vine. It was the darkest night they had ever seen. A huge fart rattled the thin van walls.  The driver, whom had by now introduced himself as Nick Baldass (Baldy for short), was horrified by the flatulency and asked, “do you have to pinch a loaf boy?”  “ Oh yeah” said Fatty, and I can’t wait!”  Baldy quickly swerved off the nearest off-ramp with brakes and tires screeching and smoking.  Hey there is this old fort, Fort Tajon ®,  over there that has a one holer, but we got to get on the road again if we want to get a room at the Padre. Fatty had to pinch so bad and the fart gas was so thick in the back of the truck that he started to hallucinate.  “Hey Mr. Baldy! I think there is an old Indian, with painted feet, a ghost back here with me and he’s eaten all the Ding Dongs and, and, and.... the last box of Quisp ® cereal.    

The truck game to rest on a dirt berm just outside the fort. Fatty leapt out of the back of the van with nearly supper human capacities and ran through the darkness toward the fort’s gate.  “Its’ locked, ” yelled Fatty ® , he was screaming and crying.  He took of quickly to the left like a tight end and jammed through the small ravine and through the muddy stream. One of Fatty’s feet sunk deep into the mud.  When he took the next running step he had one shoe on and one shoe off, one muddy sock.     When he came out of the brush he was on a straight spring across the lawn to the vague silhouette of an Andy Gump in the darkness. He leaped into the out-house- ripped a big one and the sides vibrated for several seconds. Before he could see any action he felt something move against his butt cheek. He hopped up and flicked on his lighted and looked down the hole.
Slap!!! A huge bull frog had mistaken Fatties flatulence for a frog mating call and      leaped vigorously onto Fatties face and had a death grip. The frog commenced humping fatties face, his left nostril to be exact.    Fatty jumped back with such horror and fear that the door, with hinges, latches, and all flew out with him and hit the mud like bobsled.   Fatty sledded down the pitch dark, muddy embankment with a full mooned booty  and a frog stuck to his face. Smashing into an old cannon send Fatty airborne splashing down square in a mound of horse apples. The frog, finished with his business, hopped off Fatties face as if to go light a cigaret. Fatty looked up to see
Baldy hovering over him with a flash light, he had heard Fatty’s muffled screams though the out-house walls. Baldy looked down at Fatty amidst the mud and the chirping crickets and began rambling on about the small bugs; “Dude did you know male crickets rub their wings together to attract females. You can measure the air temperature to within a few degrees by listening to a chirping cricket and applying a simple mathematical formula.
 
   
1.      Count the number of times that the cricket chirps in 14 seconds.
 
2.      Add 40 to this number. This will be the air temperature in degrees 
         Fahrenheit.   

It’s pretty cold up here dude!”  Baldy stood and watched as Fatty was forced to get up and recover on his own. Drawers still around his ankles, covered with mud and one shoe on and one dirty sock. He mad to the can and finished up his business, all the while Baldy listening to himself ramble on.  “Oh yeah dude, I got a perfect ding dong box you can have as a shoe”....   

Back in the van the dudes were heading down the vine, just before they hit the flats they could pick up Bakersfield Radio and crackling and fuzzy rendition of Homer Joy’s classic Buck Owens ® tune “Streets of Bakersfield”® , The dudes sang wildly along as they blazed down the dark grade
into the Valley, Fatty keepin’ time with his new Ding Dong ® box shoe. . 

 

LARDS PART 1      ( CHAPTER 1)


West Hollywood, 1977, California, USA    

                                   

(1)     As the movie, War of the Gauguin II®., twinkled towards it’s harry end, Chubsy Wubsy giggled. A mas of empty candy wrappers and pop-corn fragments hovered beneath his blubbery set of chins -his ravenous mouth dropping crumbs with each chew cycle  - and the copious m & m debris, his booming fart cast echos across the theater; the  smell of the flatulence caused Fatty Theirbuckle to announce: “smells like Scooter Pies®.” ! All chewing stopped on a dime. If it were not for the  War of the Gauguin II®, you could have heard the proverbial pin drop. At the time Scooter Pies®. and Moon Pies®. were not available in West Hollywood and the two chubby teens had no car. Chubsy was the first to make the daring proposal, but fatty was thinking it.  Bakersfield!®. exclaimed Chubsy. Fatty repeated the name under his breath several times with a honey glazed® stare.

Chubsy knew Fatty was just learning the ropes, Their was a lot more Chubsy wanted to teach the young Moon-pie® hunter. Chubsy still had some popcorn, candy and half a hot dog left. It was a bag shoved is his left pocket. He took the bag out and poured the remains, the equivalent of about one fat shovel-full, into his mouth. Fatty wanted to learn to be a master but he didn’t know how to talk to Chubsy, he felt almost insignificant near him - after all, this was the grand master.
Fatty took a shot at speaking to him, “ Mr Wubsy, why do a lot of great snack foods have great jingle songs but not Moon Pies?” Chubsy paused as in deep thought, the darkness of the night showing off his massive silhouette, and then he said with great reverence “ According to food historians, manufactured marshmallow cake and cookie treats were first marketed to the American public in the early decades of the 20th century. These most likely descended from Victoria sandwich cakes. Advances in technology made marshmallow products of all kinds readily available to the American public. Products proliferated.    The History of the Great American Moon-Pie®. is rather obscure, however,   In his book, "The Great American MoonPie®. Handbook", Mr. Dickson had written of the MoonPie's® lost history. Not long after his book was published, he received a telephone call from Earl Mitchell, Jr., identifying his deceased father, Earl Mitchell, Sr., as the person responsible for the invention of the MoonPie®.  You see, said Chubsy, you don’t write a jingle for an American institution like the Moon-pie®    

Chubsy turned slowly to Fatty , “ Im ready to skip West Hollywood for the big smelly town over the mountains that he knew was shrouded by smog and cow airborne  particulate matter, with Hostess® and Little Debbie® outlets on every street corner.   In Bakersfield, by the late 1950's, the MoonPie® had grown in popularity, so much that the bakery did not have the resources available to produce anything else. The phrase "RC Cola® and a MoonPie®" became well known around the Bakersfield area, as many people enjoyed this delicious, bargain-priced combination. They were so popular store clerks at Floyd’s ® and Montgomery Wards® could not keep the treats in stock.  Moon Pie®  By 1977, Bakersfield was known as the Moon-pie® Mecca
     
   

Reply or Comment

Send to a Friend

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

LARDS PART 1                 & nbsp;       &n bsp;       &nb sp;       &nbs p;         ;     
CHAPTER 2  -EDITED  FOR FAMILY READING-

 (Geeting to Bakersfield,  known as the Moon-pie® Mecca. )


“Hey fat boy, want some chow?” came a voice from an ice cream - snack truck that had just pulled up. Fatty stood in the burger parking lot, his hands in his left pocket, belly hunched, and with the hungry look on his face that Chubsy told him to always have. “Be the damn Porky Pig ®”
Chubsy had told him. 

“Who?”

“I dunno. Some dead cartoon pig with a star on the WB ® toons walk of fame.”

“What kind of snacks you got?” Fatty said hogishly to the driver/vendor.

“I got the sweet, carbo stuff. I got twinkies-soft and sweet. Whatever. You look like an obese kid, kinda hungry though”

“Oh I ain’t hungry. I am full! That last 24 pack of ding-dongs hit the spot.” 

“Maybe you’re hungry for something moon shaped?”       

At that point the snack truck driver made his move, “Okay fat boy, no more messin’ around.  Get in the back of the truck.  The Mayor of Bakersfield is holding a Moon-pie ® eating contest at the Bakersfield bell tower tomorrow and I need you to win it for me!”  
                                       
“Fatty looked astounded, why didn’t you just say so!”  And into the rear of the snack truck, it listed to the lft, it was a converted old Helms Bakery ® jobber,  . The truck sped off like a bat out off hell, nicely packed, to hold in freshness and goodness,  food snacks were flying everywhere.    At one time, not long ago, a fleet of 300 Helms Bakery ® vans cruised the neighborhoods of the Los Angeles area summoning people with their distinctive whistles to purchase bread and pastries. The center of this operation was the Helms Bakery ® building on Venice Boulevard in Culver City (still located there with original Helms logo ®). The company, founded by Paul Helms in 1931, eventually succumbed to competition from emerging supermarkets and closed in 1969. Still today, an independently operated former Helms Bakery ® truck, perhaps the last, cruises the neighborhoods of Montebello, tooting its whistle and offering bread and pastries.

The old truck was jamming, I think it might have hit 45 mph on one decline near Lake Castaic. Was it the truck or the extra ballast? No one will ever know for sure.  It was getting late and the odd couple had just reached the summit of the 5 Interstate on the Grape-vine. It was the darkest night they had ever seen. A huge fart rattled the thin van walls.  The driver, whom had by now introduced himself as Nick Baldass (Baldy for short), was horrified by the flatulency and asked, “do you have to pinch a loaf boy?”  “ Oh yeah” said Fatty, and I can’t wait!”  Baldy quickly swerved off the nearest off-ramp with brakes and tires screeching and smoking.  Hey there is this old fort, Fort Tajon ®,  over there that has a one holer, but we got to get on the road again if we want to get a room at the Padre. Fatty had to pinch so bad and the fart gas was so thick in the back of the truck that he started to hallucinate.  “Hey Mr. Baldy! I think there is an old Indian, with painted feet, a ghost back here with me and he’s eaten all the Ding Dongs and, and, and.... the last box of Quisp ® cereal.    

The truck game to rest on a dirt berm just outside the fort. Fatty leapt out of the back of the van with nearly supper human capacities and ran through the darkness toward the fort’s gate.  “Its’ locked, ” yelled Fatty ® , he was screaming and crying.  He took of quickly to the left like a tight end and jammed through the small ravine and through the muddy stream. One of Fatty’s feet sunk deep into the mud.  When he took the next running step he had one shoe on and one shoe off, one muddy sock.     When he came out of the brush he was on a straight spring across the lawn to the vague silhouette of an Andy Gump in the darkness. He leaped into the out-house- ripped a big one and the sides vibrated for several seconds. Before he could see any action he felt something move against his butt cheek. He hopped up and flicked on his lighted and looked down the hole.
Slap!!! A huge bull frog had mistaken Fatties flatulence for a frog mating call and      leaped vigorously onto Fatties face and had a death grip. The frog commenced humping fatties face, his left nostril to be exact.    Fatty jumped back with such horror and fear that the door, with hinges, latches, and all flew out with him and hit the mud like bobsled.   Fatty sledded down the pitch dark, muddy embankment with a full mooned booty  and a frog stuck to his face. Smashing into an old cannon send Fatty airborne splashing down square in a mound of horse apples. The frog, finished with his business, hopped off Fatties face as if to go light a cigaret. Fatty looked up to see
Baldy hovering over him with a flash light, he had heard Fatty’s muffled screams though the out-house walls. Baldy looked down at Fatty amidst the mud and the chirping crickets and began rambling on about the small bugs; “Dude did you know male crickets rub their wings together to attract females. You can measure the air temperature to within a few degrees by listening to a chirping cricket and applying a simple mathematical formula.
 
   
1.      Count the number of times that the cricket chirps in 14 seconds.
 
2.      Add 40 to this number. This will be the air temperature in degrees 
         Fahrenheit.   

It’s pretty cold up here dude!”  Baldy stood and watched as Fatty was forced to get up and recover on his own. Drawers still around his ankles, covered with mud and one shoe on and one dirty sock. He mad to the can and finished up his business, all the while Baldy listening to himself ramble on.  “Oh yeah dude, I got a perfect ding dong box you can have as a shoe”....   

Back in the van the dudes were heading down the vine, just before they hit the flats they could pick up Bakersfield Radio and crackling and fuzzy rendition of Homer Joy’s classic Buck Owens ® tune “Streets of Bakersfield”® , The dudes sang wildly along as they blazed down the dark grade
into the Valley, Fatty keepin’ time with his new Ding Dong ® box shoe. . 
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posted by regulators on Saturday, April 28, 2007 at 11:53 PM
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