Tag: Buick

Dude your getting a Buick

As I sat behind the wheel of my sleek new 2024 Buick Envista I asked myself a question: what happened to Ben Curtis, the actor who uttered the greatest marketing catchphrase of all time? (Come to find out, he was busted for marijuana in 2003) So with the mind of Don Draper, I consulted ChatGPT in an effort to put the great commercial thespian back to work. Here are the results:

“In a sleek, modern dealership, Matthew McConaughey, clad in his signature suit, saunters in with an air of mystique. As he approaches the reception desk, who else but Ben Curtis, the iconic ‘Dude, you’re getting a Dell’ guy, stands ready to assist, now a seasoned car salesman.

“Alright, alright, alright,” Matthew drawls, his gaze drifting towards the shitty Lincolns on display. “I’m in the market for something smooth, somethin’ that whispers luxury with every turn of the wheel.”

But Ben, ever the persuader, intercepts with a knowing smile. “Matthew,” he says, leaning in conspiratorially, “let me show you something that’ll blow your mind.” With a flourish, he guides Matthew towards the gleaming Buicks, each exuding an air of understated elegance.

As they stroll past the Buicks, Matthew’s curiosity piqued, Ben regales him with tales of performance, comfort, and sophistication. Matthew listens intently, his trademark introspection blending seamlessly with Ben’s persuasive charm.

Finally, they stand before a particularly stunning Buick, its lines sleek, its interior opulent. Matthew’s eyes light up with newfound appreciation. “You know what, Ben?” he muses, a grin spreading across his face. “I believe you’ve shown me the way. I’m gettin’ a Buick.”

With a triumphant chuckle, Ben claps Matthew on the back. “Dude, you’re getting a Buick!” he exclaims, his voice carrying the same infectious enthusiasm that once sold computers by the truckload.

As the camera pans out, Matthew slides behind the wheel of his new Buick, a symbol of sophistication and style. And with one final nod to Ben, the unlikely duo seals the deal, ushering in a new era of automotive allure.”

Jack hardcock: Christian detective (part viii?)

Sally’s trail went cold. But somewhere beneath that shit-crusted anus that is the Cleveland underworld, she was waiting on us, plotting her trap.

The FBI was generous enough to fish out Gregg’s Buick from the bottom of the Cuyahoga River. Despite being busted up on the side and immersed in water for hours, it started up like a charm.

“A Buick will never let you down, my daddy always told me,” Gregg said.

“Ain’t that the truth.”

We were passing back and forth a bottle of brandy while on stakeout outside of Progressive Field. Peter Tucker sent us there. He had his suspicions that Sally would strike there next.

“What kind of idiot would send us here?” I asked Gregg. “It’s not even baseball season!”

“That ain’t true boss,” he replied. “There’s a celebrity baseball game here tomorrow.”

The blood drained from my face. “Oh fuck!” I said. “Gregg, get to the nearest pay phone and page Pete’s beeper. We’re gonna need backup.”

I knew what Sally was thinking. Celebrities would be there. That means pedos, druggies, rapists, all-around scum of the earth. She would have all of her eggs in one basket.

So I readied my .38 and scaled the fence into the stadium. It was night. The security guards were sleeping.

Sally was there. I knew it with all my instinct. I kicked open doors and trashed the stadium but found no one.

Then I entered the equipment room.

Inside were countless bald eagles locked up in cages. Strapped to them were contraptions that, when activated, would release live hand grenades onto unsuspecting people below.

“What are you doing in here?!” a man shouted. It was the bird keeper.

I lifted the .38. “Where’s Sally?” I said.

The man raised his hands in the air. “Hey man! I know nothing about that. I was just paid to do a job!”

I clicked the gun. “I’ll give you three seconds to answer before I blow your brains out,” I replied.

The man pissed his pants and continued to cry that he knew nothin. I pulled the trigger and his brains splattered all over the wall. In hindsight, that was a bad decision because I should have took him in for questioning.

C’est la vie.

I walked back out to the Buick and looked for Gregg. Off in the distance, underneath a pay phone, I saw Gregg laying on the ground holding his guts in.

I ran up and tried to stop the bleeding.

“She got me good, Jack,” Gregg said.

“Shut the fuck up you stupid bastard,” I replied. “You’re not gonna die.”

With his last bit of strength, Gregg grabbed me by the back of the neck. “Jack, I want you to know,” he uttered, “I regret every moment.”

There I held Gregg Poppovich, local Cleveland gangster, dead in my arms.

Then the pay phone rang. “Jack! This is Pete Tucker,” the voice said, “I received an urgent page from Gregg!”

“Gregg’s dead,” I said to Pete. “Sally killed my boss and now she’s killed my best friend. But I have her right where I want her. She’s here, Pete. Vengeance is mine.”

TO BE CONTINUED…