- Age / Gender:
- n/a, Male
- Location not disclosed
- All Stats >
- Community Stats
Level 24 Blank Slate
Ranked as Portal Security
Contact Info / Websites
WARNING: there is a lot of swearing involved. Also, skipping through to the end reveals the conclusion to why Chrysler went bankrupt, but is considerably less hilarious than reading it all the way through.
Also- fuck Chrysler. Seriously.
So, there's this charity event at my buddy John's work this past sunday. Ten bucks for an oil change, all proceeds go to help this dude pay for his kid's surgery. I'm a sucker for charities, so I'm down for that. Plus, hella deal. Win-win, right?
Well. I'm on the interstate, in the far left lane, at about noon or so. I'm flying like a bat outta hell- which is stupid, because there's shit-tons of traffic. Anyway. I hear this noise, like I ran over a dog made out of doorknobs and broken glass. So I attempt to change lanes, thinking I just ran over a dog made out of doorknobs and broken glass.
Oh, what's that? My power steering is gone? and my old boxy-80's-Deathmobile (an '87 fifth Avenue, for the record) is impossible to fucking steer without it? Oh, good! I was afraid my life was too boring. A little vehicular issue is just the ticket to liven things up. And what better place, than ON THE FUCKING INTERSTATE, AT A HIGH RATE OF SPEED?
P.S.- driving without power steering is hard. Especially when, up until two seconds ago, you HAD power steering.
Driving through insane midday traffic on the Denver interstate is hard. Especially when you're a bit panicky, what with the "losing power steering two seconds ago" thing.
Trying to get OFF the fucking highway, without power steering, while every-fucking-car around you refuses to give you ANY damn space, while your battery is rapidly dying and your engine is rapidly approaching "white hot ball of Fuck My Life- and also metal" temperatures... not fun. Also, mostly impossible.
Good thing I ate a big ol' bowl of Fuck You, Universe!(tm) brand Breakfast Flakes earlier- by which I mean, I drank half a gatorade and smoked two cigarettes while swearing at everything that made eye contact with me.
So, powered by sheer spite and "did this shit REALLY fucking happen on my way to a fucking CHARITY?!" levels of incredulity, I get the damn death-mo-yacht off the highway, off the main street the highway exit led to, and off the main-est sidestreet off THAT street. Which, for those of you unfamiliar with Denver infrastructure, means "I dropped it into a black fucking hole. Also, Speer."
I call up my buddy Brooksey, who has just had his wisdom teeth out two days before. As a Get-Well present, I offer him a "Wanna help me change my goddamn belts in the parking lot- i.e. street- behind a No Tell Motel? Oh, by the way, did I tell you my belts all exploded? And that exploding belts sound like running over a dog made out of doorknobs and broken glass? Because that's TOTALLY what they sound like. By the way."
Which is apparently just what he wanted to spend his weekend doing. Lucky me! :-D
So he gets down to where I'm at, and after trying to use the navigation on his phone to find an auto parts place for ten minutes while I smoked and swore and fished bits of belt out of my car's every-damn-place-except-where-they're-
supposed-to-be, we head to Autozone. The dumbass behind the counter tries to claim that, on brand new belts, you want a slightly larger size. Because, you know, all that heat from the engine will shrink 'em down to size. Amirite?
Ten minutes later, we have three belts- one of which is too big (but we won't find out until later), and, lo and behold, his tire is flat. Like, "it looks like your rim just vomited black embossed letters onto the pavement" flat.
Back inside we go, for a can of fix-a-flat. Dump the whole thing in, which does FUCKALL. Back inside again for an air compressor- end up with a little "plug it into your cigg lighter" kind. But, his cigg lighter, obviously, doesn't work. Because if it DID, that would imply the Universe is done pissing on the following people: me, and anybody near me, just to make sure it got me properly soaked with Karmic Urine. Apparently, "on my way to donate money to a charity so a guy gets to pay for the surgery to save his kid's life- oh, and did I mention I don't know any of these people personally, and it's about 50 miles round-trip out of my way?" isn't quite good enough to earn me a little Slightly-Less-Than-Total-Shit Luck. Thanks, Karma!
Anyway, we pop the hood of his truck to use the battery itself. Said hood, naturally, slams closed on my hand. Anyway, we get the fucking thing hooked up, and it makes all sorts of noise, and pumps in just enough air to push out the entire fucking can of fix-a-flat we just put in.
Back inside. Another can. More swearing. Back outside. Tire pumped full of suggestively homoerotic colored goo. Air compressor tries to catch itself on fire, but fails. On the plus side, the tire is no longer squealing and spraying off-white goo like a 15-year-old getting his first handjob, so that's a plus.
Back to the MY car!
Two hours later- oh look! Remember that belt I mentioned earlier? The one that was the wrong size? That there was no way for me to know it was the wrong size, because I only had a few tattered bits of the old belt? Guess what? One of the belts was the wrong fucking size!
BACK TO THE GODDAMN AUTOZONE. AGAIN.
Two more hours later- belts are changed (I'd give the details, but they can be summed up thusly- Fuck Chrysler. I mean, HOLYSHIT SERIOUSLY?!?! FUCK CHRYSLER!!!11 Also, I now have a most keen insight as to why they went bankrupt. And not surprisingly, it mostly has to do with spending two decades making shitty cars.), and I'm once more on the highway, in the far left lane, heading south at absurd speeds, all in an effort to get my goddamned oil changed FOR FUCKING CHARITY, DAMMIT!
So, how was everyone else's sunday?
Recent Game Medals
Total Medals Earned: 499 (From 86 different games.)