Saturday, February 19, 2011

Rage Quit

I quit. Cars that is, I quit them. What two face backstabber came up with that industry? “Here I’ll sell you this vehicle for a ton of money but I’ll see you again real soon when you starting having problems with it.” Awesome. I’m going to buy some horses. I’ll ride everywhere I need to go. If something isn’t in reasonable range of me and my horse, then I don’t really need to go there. But knowing my luck the horse would break a leg and I’d have to shoot the damned thing and make some glue, or dog food. Even then, at least it would be useful to me unlike cars which break down and become the eye sore of rural lower class America. I might as well scatter a few plastic flamingos and half naked children around the yard and throw a barbeque. I’ll buy some Bud Light and wear a cut off denim t-shirt with a Dale Jr. hat and cook up some road kill steaks; skunk is in season. Odin help us all.

You would probably like some context? So would I. I’d love to know what fate deciding ass hole crapped on my head. I have recorded my past problems in the automotive department in previous postings: The Tire, A Lost for Words, The Bad Friday and The Mouse: so I’ll spare you the recap. The wife and I decided to go to Huntington for dinner Friday night. In our normal run of luck, we both got off work late and were rushing around the house to get going. About three minutes after we left, my sometimes lovely wife turns and asks:

“Did I leave a bottle of Diet Coke in the dogs reach?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think I left the cap off! Oh my God, what if Winston (the dog) gets it and dies?” I assured her this would not be the case and the bottle was not left out. We proceeded to Huntington. Around about ten minutes from our destination, we hit a large bump in the road. I thought nothing of it and we went on for a minute or so, when I realized the bump caused us to flat. We later went back to discover the hole was actually a branch of the Grand Canyon; how did I not see it? So since July we've dealt with three flats now. Actually, my wife and I are now past three years of marriage heading to four and we are averaging two flat tires per year of marriage. It was also very dark outside. Before I got out of the car, my wife asked if I knew how to change a tire and I almost lost it. She later clarified that she meant if I knew how to change the tire on the new car. I shook my head and told her to make me a sandwich. Then I threw that damned donut on the new car and we rolled out to the Olive Garden. I mean, we were already there, may as well eat.

After a moment, I started thinking; perhaps some place is open that could change the flat real quick so we don’t have to drive the donut home. The Wife called both Wal-Mart’s in the area, one was closed and the other didn’t answer. I gave up until we got to the mall and I remembered that Sears has an auto center. Saved! And they where still open! We pulled up and showed them the tire. This was the first time I had a chance to see the flat in the light. I noticed at the same time the mechanics did, the large dent in the rim. They quickly informed me they could not fix it and sent me away because they wanted to close and go home to their families or porn, feel free to incert the word of your choice. People helping people, that’s what this world is all about.

So we went to Olive Garden. The relatively short wait seemed like a silent eternity as we sat and watched the fat nine year old girl across the waiting room wearing spandex short shorts do cartwheels and jumping jacks in the crowded space while the parents just pretended the kid wasn’t fat or annoying. Way to carbo-load your poor child and teach them to eat away their sorrows. Good luck with Weight Watchers in twenty years kid. Finally we were seated. I was happy to sit until I realized two things at the exact same time. First, those little mozzarella pushers put us right by the kitchen door that did nothing but slam all night. Second, they sat us at Andre the Giant’s special reserved table. If I’m uncomfortable with the height of the table, my poor wife (who is a foot shorter than I) must feel like a Hobbit.

Our conversation the rest of the evening was on our misfortune, the costs involved in fixing the tire, my concerns about drive home on the donut: among others. Yet all these pressing matters and still, after dinner and the movie as we settled into the car for the ride home, my lovely, caring, beautiful wife turns and asks: “Do you think the bottle of Diet Coke is okay?”

I drove the car off an embankment, into the Ohio River. I’m writing this from the beyond. Have a nice life.

*Rage quits*

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