TumbleDweeeb

Mad Mechanics: The Mater Weed Machine
Written by: Emmitt Owens
*As narrated by Waylon*
Episode 7

Waylon, Intro: “Well now, folks, let me tell you about the day the boys at Mad Mechanics decided to help Gutglor turn his beat-up Chevy S10 into what he proudly called the “Mater Weed Machine” – a contraption so ridiculous it defied both logic and the laws of physics, but somehow embodied the pure essence of Alabama agricultural innovation.”

   It all started on a Tuesday morning when business was slower than molasses on a cold, cold day. The old clock radio was cracklin’ out Travis Tritt’s “T-R-O-U-B-L-E,” which seemed mighty appropriate for what was about to unfold. Gutglor came rollin’ into the shop drivin’ what could generously be called a truck, though it looked more like something that had survived a tornado, a flood, and mud bogging in six feet deep of Alabama red clay. The little S10 sat about four feet higher than God intended, thanks to a lift kit that appeared to have been assembled from spare parts, good intentions, and an alarming amount of faith in backyard engineering.
       “Boys!” Gutglor announced, climbin’ down from his elevated perch with the enthusiasm of a man unveiling the eighth wonder of the world, “today we’re gonna turn this beauty into the finest mater-harvesting machine in Colbert County!”
   Chester walked around the truck like a doctor examinin’ a patient with multiple personality disorders. The rust had rust, the dents had dents, and there was a beer can duct-taped to the exhaust pipe with enough silver tape to patch a barn roof.
      “Gutglor,” Chester said carefully, “what exactly is that beer can supposed to accomplish?”
    “Exhaust leak,” Gutglor explained proudly. “That Budweiser can plugs the hole perfect-like. Plus, it gives the engine a nice aluminum resonance. Sounds almost musical when you rev it up.”
   Gary peered under the truck and discovered what appeared to be Christmas lights strung along the frame rails. “Are them fluorescent lights under there?”
       “Course they are!” Gutglor beamed. “For nighttime field drivin’. You gotta be able to see your maters when you’re harvestin’ after dark. It’s all about efficiency.”
   Professor Thibodaux adjusted his spectacles and started takin’ notes. “Fascinating. You’ve essentially created an agricultural work vehicle with integrated lighting systems.”
    “See?” Gutglor said triumphantly. “The Professor gets it.”
   Reedus emerged from under the hood, his wild hair standin’ up like he’d been electrocuted. “A stiff breeze, two zipties, and a half-chewed Skittle are all that’s holdin’ this thing together.”
       “That Skittle is from the Brightside variety,” Gutglor corrected. “Holds better than most gaskets.”
   The truck’s doors were secured with what looked like swivel staple hasp locks – the kind you’d find on a barn door or a chicken coop. Each door had three of them, creating a security system that was either extremely thorough or completely unnecessary.
      “Why all the locks?” Gary asked, examinin’ the elaborate door hardware.
     “Mater thieves,” Gutglor replied seriously. “You can’t be too careful when you’re transportin’ valuable agricultural products. Plus, these hasps double as door handles when the regular ones fall off, had it happen a few times before. They work.”
   Chester walked to the back of the truck and discovered a collection of flashlights duct-taped to the fenders, pointing in various directions like a mechanical lighthouse. “And these flashlights?”
       “Backup lighting system,” Gutglor explained. “You never know when your main headlights might fail during critical harvesting operations.”

Intermission: “Now folks, imagine someone lookin’ at a perfectly good wheel and sayin’, ‘Y’know what this needs? Edges. Lasers. And a horn that plays ‘Sweet Home Alabama.’ That’s about what happened.”
  
Reedus disappeared into the depths of the shop and came back draggin’ a seventies-era washing machine, a pile of garden tools that looked like they’d been used to mine Appalachian granite, and enough chicken wire to fence in the whole Muscle Shoals Wal-Mart.
       “Boys! Boys! Boys!” Reedus bellowed like a man who just turned a lawnmower into a time machine, his wild hair standin’ even wilder with enthusiasm. “This is gonna be absolutely re-VOLT-ing! We’re gonna make this harvester totally CURRENT with the times! I’m gonna build Gutglor the finest mater harvester ever conceived – it’ll be SHOCKING how well it works! This project’s got me all AMPED up! And when we’re done, Gutglor’s gonna have the most ELECTRIFYING agricultural equipment in three counties!”
       “Using a wash machine?” the Professor asked, his scientific curiosity overriding his better judgment.
    “Keep them puns comin’, Reedus,” Gary muttered, tightening a bolt with unnecessary force, “and I swear I’ll squish you like a ripe mater under a tractor tire.”
   Chester took a long drag from his Camel and blew smoke toward the ceiling. “Not just any washing machine,” he said, repeating Reedus’s words with the weary tone of a man who’d seen this kind of thing before.
      “A 1971 GE washer with a motor so powerful it could spin clothes to the moon. Perfect for agricultural applications!” Reedus corrected enthusiastically.
   He started assemblyin’ what could generously be called a “harvesting device” but looked more like something designed to either pick tomatoes or summon ancient spirits. The washing machine motor was mounted on a frame made from welded exhaust pipes, with garden shears attached at strategic angles and axe picks arranged in a pattern that defied agricultural logic.
      “The chicken wire,” Reedus explained, wrappin’ it around the contraption like he was gift-wrapping a mechanical tornado, “acts as a collection system. The maters get picked by the shears, chopped by the axes, and caught by the wire mesh.”
     “That sounds violent,” Gary observed.
       “Agriculture is a rough business,” Reedus replied cheerfully.
   Meanwhile, Chester had crawled under the S10 and was marveling at the creative engineering solutions, lighting up a fresh Camel in the dim light beneath the truck. “Gutglor, how exactly does this truck stay together?”
     “Well,” Gutglor said, crawlin’ under to join him, “the frame’s reinforced with angle iron from an old barn, the suspension’s held on with grade-8 bolts and the Lord’s prayer, and the differential’s packed with sawdust and 90-weight gear oil.”
       “Sawdust?” the Professor asked, his voice crackin’ like a teenager’s.
     “Absorbs moisture and provides lubrication,” Gutglor explained matter-of-factly. “Plus, it smells like pine trees when it gets hot.”
   Gary had discovered that the truck’s electrical system was a work of art that would’ve impressed Picasso. Wires ran everywhere in patterns that seemed to follow no known automotive logic, held together with electrical tape in more colors than a rainbow.
       “This wiring looks like it was done by drunk Christmas elves,” Gary muttered.
     “I prefer to think of it as creative routing,” Gutglor replied. “Every wire serves a purpose, even if that purpose ain’t immediately obvious.”
   About that time, Axl came wanderin’ into the shop and immediately claimed the truck’s cab as his new territory, curlin’ up on a seat that was held together with more duct tape than actual upholstery.
       “Good choice, Axl,” Gutglor said approvingly. “That’s the most comfortable seat in the shop, once you get used to the springs pokin’ through.”
   As the day progressed, each member of the Mad Mechanics crew contributed their own unique improvements to the Mater Weed Machine. The radio had switched to Garth Brooks belting out “Friends in Low Places,” which seemed perfect for a truck that sat four feet higher than everything else on the road.

[[[Suddenly, the very fabric of reality hiccupped, time froze like a busted transmission, and the Travis Tritt on the radio was replaced by an overly enthusiastic announcer’s voice that seemed to come from somewhere between dimensions…]]]

   “ARE YOU TIRED OF YOUR REGULAR, BORING, THREE-DIMENSIONAL SOCKS? INTRODUCING QUANTUM SOCKS™ – THE REVOLUTIONARY FOOTWEAR THAT EXISTS IN MULTIPLE REALITIES SIMULTANEOUSLY!”
   Chester’s cigarette hung suspended in mid-air, smoke frozen like a gray snake. Gutglor was stuck mid-gesture, pointing at his truck. Even Axl was frozen solid, one paw raised toward the water bowl built into the dash.
       “Listen to these AMAZING customer testimonials!”
     “Before Quantum Socks™, I could only walk in one universe at a time! Now I’m simultaneously hiking Mount Everest, dancing at my wedding, AND running from bears in seventeen different cities! My feet have never been more confused OR more comfortable!” – Brenda, Parallel Universe #447*
       “I put on my Quantum Socks™ and immediately became the sheriff of a small town in the Old West, a professional ice cream taster in New York City, AND somehow I’m married to three different versions of my high school sweetheart! These socks have completely ruined my understanding of linear time, but my bunions feel FANTASTIC!” – Earl, Timeline Refugee*
     “Quantum Socks™ changed my life! I’m now living in a reality where I invented the paperclip, another where I’m a talking dog, and one where gravity works sideways! The only downside is I keep getting my laundry mixed up with alternate versions of myself. Five stars!” – Doug
    “Warning: Quantum Socks™ may cause temporal displacement, existential confusion, marriage to cartoon characters, spontaneous yodeling, and/or becoming your own grandfather. Not recommended for people allergic to infinite possibilities. Side effects may include seeing through time, speaking in colors, and having your morning coffee in next Tuesday. If you experience reality fractures lasting more than four hours, consult your local physicist immediately.”
      “QUANTUM SOCKS™ – BECAUSE YOUR FEET DESERVE TO EXIST EVERYWHERE AT ONCE! Call 1-800-WHY-REALITY! That’s 1-800-949-7325-489! Operators are standing by in all time zones! Also available at participating interdimensional Walmart locations!”
    
[[[Reality snapped back like a rubber band, time lurched forward, and suddenly everyone was exactly where they’d been before, though Chester looked around suspiciously and took an extra-long drag from his cigarette.]]]

      “Did… did anybody else just hear something about socks?” the Professor asked, adjusting his spectacles nervously.
     “Socks?” Gary blinked. “Nah, I was just thinkin’ about them speakers we rigged up from that funeral home.”
   Chester blew smoke thoughtfully. “Nah, Professor. Just the radio cracklin’. Sometimes these stations pick up weird interference.”

[But somewhere in the back of everyone’s mind was the nagging feeling that their feet could somehow be in multiple places at once, if only they had the right socks…]

   Chester rigged up a PA system using a CB radio and speakers salvaged from a drive-in movie theater. “For coordinatin’ harvesting operations and playin’ motivational music,” he explained.

Intermission: “Well now, folks, this is where the story takes a turn from merely improbable to downright miraculous. You see, when you get a group of Alabama mechanics together with unlimited imagination, questionable judgment, and access to spare parts from four decades of automotive history, you’re bound to witness something that’ll make you question the very foundations of physics and common sense. What happened next was like watchin’ the Wright Brothers decide that flying wasn’t ambitious enough – they needed to add cup holders and a sound system too.

       “You know what they say,” Chester announced with a grin, lighting up a cigarette, “You might be a redneck if your truck’s sound system cost more than your truck!”
   Everyone paused to appreciate that bit of wisdom before bustin’ out laughin’.
   Gary installed a cooler system that involved a mini-fridge strapped to the passenger side, powered by an alternator from a school bus and cooled by a window air conditioning unit that hung out the back like a mechanical tumor.
       “For keepin’ the maters fresh during transport,” Gary explained proudly.
   The Professor contributed a navigation system that consisted of a compass duct-taped to the dashboard, a road atlas from 1987, and a sundial mounted on the hood.
       “For precise field positioning and astronomical reference,” he announced with the dignity of a man unveiling an important scientific breakthrough.
   Reedus had completed his harvesting contraption, which now resembled something that belonged in either a agricultural museum or a horror movie. The washing machine motor hummed with mechanical contentment, the garden shears snapped menacingly, and the chicken wire created patterns that were either brilliant or insane.
   Chester flicked his current cigarette into the coffee can and immediately lit another one. “Fire her up!” Reedus declared, connectin’ his creation to the truck’s power system through a series of jumper cables, extension cords, and what may had been a four slice toaster.
   When Gutglor started the S10, the entire contraption came to life with sounds that defied description. The engine rumbled like Zeus had joined a demolition derby, the exhaust beer can played a metallic symphony, the fluorescent lights flickered on in a display that could be seen from space, and Reedus’s harvester hummed and clicked like a mechanical orchestra.
       “Well, I’ll be Hank Aaron,” Old Pete said, wanderin’ in from his bench across the street to see what all the commotion was about. “That’s either the finest agricultural equipment I ever seen, or the most elaborate lawn sculpture in Alabama.”
     “It’s functional art,” Gutglor declared proudly, revivin’ the engine and settin’ off a light show that made the shop look like a disco designed by farmers.
   They decided to take the Mater Weed Machine for a test drive, which required all hands on deck just to ensure it didn’t fall apart before leaving the shop. Gutglor climbed into the driver’s seat, sittin’ just high enough to feel like he was king of the trailer park without needin’ a ladder.
       “Y’all ready for the maiden voyage?” Gutglor called down from his elevated perch.
   Chester, Gary, Reedus, and the Professor all piled into the bed of the truck, which had been modified with bench seats made from church pews and safety rails constructed from scaffolding pipe.
   As they rolled out of the shop, the Mater Weed Machine announced its presence to the world with all the subtlety of a mechanical parade. The fluorescent lights cast an eerie glow on the pavement, the flashlights created a light show that confused passing motorists, and Reedus’s harvester contraption hummed and clicked like a very large, very complex clock.
       “This thing rides smoother than I expected,” the Professor observed, bouncin’ slightly on his stadium seat.
     “Four-foot lift gives you a nice view of the countryside,” Gary added, wavin’ at folks who’d stopped to stare.
   They drove through downtown Buzzard Roost, past the Chill n’ Fill where folks were gatherin’ to witness the spectacle on top of the one eyed polar bear dressed as a mermaid, past the courthouse where Judge Henderson came out to see what was causin’ all the excitement, and finally out to Gutglor’s mater patch for the ultimate test.
       “Alright, boys,” Gutglor announced, parkin’ the truck at the edge of his field, “let’s see if this contraption can actually harvest maters.”
   Reedus activated his harvesting device, which immediately sprang into action with the enthusiasm of a weedwhacker with a doctrine in destruction. The garden shears started snippin’, the axe picks started choppin’, and the chicken wire started collectin’ with a kind of get-er-done speed that was either impressive or just plain unholy.
   Unfortunately, the contraption was a little too enthusiastic. Instead of carefully picking ripe tomatoes, it harvested everything in its path – maters, vines, pot, fence posts, and what appeared to be a confused, escaped chicken from Gutglor’s chicken houses.
       “Reedus!” Chester hollered over the mechanical mayhem, cigarette hanging from his lip as he shouted, “turn it off!”
     “I can’t!” Reedus yelled back, frantically pressin’ buttons and pulling levers. “It’s achieved agricultural consciousness! It’s beyond my control!”
   The harvester continued its rampage until Gutglor simply turned off the truck, which killed power to the entire system and brought blessed silence to the mater patch.
       “Well,” the Professor observed, examinin’ the results, “it’s certainly effective.”
   The contraption had indeed harvested a considerable quantity of maters, along with approximately half of Gutglor’s garden, three fence posts, a couple pounds of bud and a very indignant chicken who was now covered in tomato juice and lookin’ like it had opinions about modern agricultural methods.
       “Needs some fine-tuning,” Reedus admitted, surveyin’ the destruction with satisfaction.
   As they loaded up the truck with the day’s harvest (sorting out the fence posts, and releasing the annoyed chicken), everyone agreed that the Mater Weed Machine was a qualified success.
      “Boys,” Gutglor announced, crankin’ up the truck for the ride home, “I think we just revolutionized agriculture.”
     “Or at least made it more interesting,” Chester replied, settling into his stadium seat for the ride home.
   As they drove back through Buzzard Roost, their fluorescent lights blazin’ and Reedus’s harvester humming with mechanical satisfaction, the radio crackled to life with Alan Jackson’s “I still like Bologna.” The song seemed perfect for their agricultural adventure, and folks came out of their houses to wave and marvel at what was certainly the most unique agricultural vehicle in Alabama history.
   And so another successful project came to completion at Mad Mechanics, leaving behind one very satisfied Gutglor, one slightly traumatized chicken, and the kind of agricultural innovation that would be talked about in farming circles for generations to come.

Outro: “Now that there, folks, is what I call practical engineering. Sometimes the best solutions aren’t the most conventional ones, and sometimes the most effective agricultural equipment is the kind that looks like it was designed by mad scientists with a sense of humor. And if you ever find yourself in need of some serious mater-harvesting power, well, you know where to find the Mater Weed Machine.”

*Just look for the cloud of cigarette smoke – that’ll be Chester, still chain-smoking and shaking his head in wonder at what they’ve accomplished.

…. Now I don’t know what the boys are workin’ on next, but I saw Reedus haulin’ in a trampoline, a propane tank, and what I swear was a fax machine. So if you hear a boom from Buzzard Roost next tonight… don’t worry. It’s probably just agriculture evolving again …