- The Feds are digging for Jimmy Hoffa again. This time, they are digging near a farm 35 miles northwest of Detroit. They searched this same farm-house 30 years ago, and didnt find a thing.
If the Feds wanted to find Hoffa so badly, all they have to do is ask my brother or me what happened on that sunny, fateful afternoon, at the Machus Red Fox restaurant on July 30th, 1975. I remember as if it were yesterday (fade to new location...)
My brother and I, age three, were playing in the parking lot of the Machus restaurant with our newly signed Rick Leach U of M nerf football. My parents were inside, convincing the store manager that the strange doodles I had carved into the table using my dinner knife, where we had just previously eaten, was not vandalism, but instead profound religious symbols related to the local Huron Indian community (which still thrives to this day.) According to my folks, my doodles were protected by first amendment privileges, so the restaurant could not rightly sue my parents for the damage I had done to the table. I had no idea if my parents were actually having any success. I assumed they were having success...they had used this excuse before.
My brother and I were tossing the nerf football back and forth. My brother eventually tossed the football over my head, so I spun around to chase it down. When I turned around, I saw three men, all dressed in black and brown suits, standing behind me. An older man, who looked like boiled leather, was holding my nerf football. He said to me, "Son, is this your football?" I said to him, "Yes." He then said, "Do you know who I am?" I just stared at him. I was a nervous child, and rarely answered anyone. He followed with, "I am Jimmy Hoffa, head of the UAW." It was then that I realized I would never get my football back. Even at the tender age of 3, I knew the horrors of unionized labor. I then futilely said to Hoffa, "Mister, could you give me back my football?" I would normally have said 'please', but you have to be tough with these union guys. Dont give them an inch. Hoffa then said to me, "Son...did you know that this football was made in Japan? Look at the label. I am keeping this football. I will get you a real football, made by American workers. Proud, American union-workers who pay outrageous union dues, feel threatened when they vote their conscious, and who purposely create inferior products to keep management from making huge profits." My brother had already run back inside the restaurant. The UAW always gave him gas.
Suddenly, Mr Hoffa's head exploded! There was blood everywhere. I didnt care though. As Mr. Hoffa's body fell to the ground, he dropped my beloved football. I picked it up, and ran back inside. I didnt tell my parents. I didnt tell anyone. I figured this is what happened to people who joined unions.
Here is an article about the recent dig for Hoffa, and a biography of Hoffa:
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