This Just In

If I've had a relatively bad day AND I have PMS AND I just happen to be behind the wheel of my piece of shit car, you may not want to tailgate me or god forbid - jaywalk. I'm telling you this for your own safety.


First, let me say, "Welcome Back, piece-of-shit-old-as-dirt Honda". I've missed you, Buddy. Ol' Buddy has been in Tin Man for a long, long time. Considering two windows don't go down and two don't go up, it leaks break fluid like Niagra Falls, oh - and the engine head is so shot I have to pull the PCV out to drive, Buddy has been in Time Out for the past several months. For those of you who know how much of a tree-hugger I am, this should tickle the shit out of you: The PCV (aka pollution control valve) is a device to help control the CO your car cranks out when you drive. Driving with it unplugged from the engine block is enough to send your local EPA agent into crisis counseling and you to a long visit in the County Motel. But mo-bile, we must be. Besides, I love my little Buddy, paint primer and rust spots, too! I even took Buddy for a car wash, which is how I found out the second window does not go UP. Shit, I didn't realize a backseat had such absorbent "sponge" qualities.

Alright, so the truck has to go to the shop for a brake job and oil change. I won't name the shop - FIRE-FUCKING-STONE, but you can extrapolate. Junior Grease Monkey says Truck will be ready by end of business, which is fine with me since I absolutely live to drive home in Friday-Atlanta downtown-you must be fucking kidding me-rush hour traffic. Alas, it's actually ready early, but I still have to get to my second home (Home Depot) to get my paint and azaleas.

So on the way to Second Home - in the aforementioned traffic - smoke starts billowing out of the right rear tire. Some kind-hearted ass-semaritan starts blowing his horn and screaming, "Your truck is on fire!!!!" Well, a good piss in the pants later, I realize it's a problem with the brake - yup, Mr. Fire-fucking-stone. One call to Jr. GM and he says, "Oh, so sorry, blah blah blah. We open at 7 AM tomorrow." Now what do you do? Well, isn't it obvious?? You fucking drive home in Friday-Atlanta downtown-you must be fucking kidding me-rush hour traffic WITHOUT using your brakes. Duh.

Boy, words just cannot describe how much fun this was. WEEEEEE!

By now, I have blown a 50 amp fuse, a couple of motherboards, not to mention that really big blood vessel that controls blood flow to the brain. But, I still have to go to the grocery because I HAVE NO FOOD, not to mention NO BEER and it's godamn Friday night. That's easily one of the mortal sins, isn't it?

So, hop into Honda (aka Buddy) and off we go. Recalling some of my deflation techniques from my Anger Management class (actually, never been, but I may be on to something here), I crank in a little Natalie Merchant and start searching for my chakra - long missing from my chi - when suddenly in my rearview, there's a nice little Mercedes 6 series, shitass rap cranking at 1600 decibles, right on my fucking back fender. Did I mention it was a one lane road? No? OK, so now the fun starts.

Slow down to 35...30...25, then tap, tap, tap those breaks, now gas it for about 3 seconds - up to 40, then downshift FAST back to 20. I can actually see puffs of smoke coming out of the sunroof from this fuckstick's ride. I was really hoping he'd hit Buddy. I wouldn't mind having a Mercedes 6 series, myself. When the road became two lane and I saw there was a car in the second lane (thank you, Lord of Driver Rage), I magicially became it's long-lost-lover... never wanting to leave it's side. Like the great block at the Indy 500. Lovely. Alas, my exit came up and I had to give up my prey. Stupid fuck was so pissed he probably wrapped himself around that big oak on Boulevard and Woodwind.

So off to Ghetto Kroger. I won't go into details about Ghetto Kroger, but to mention a few notes of interest:

#1 If you take a buggy, put it back or at least, don't leave one in every, fucking parking spot.

#2 For the Ghetto-Kroger workers, can you tell me why 6:30 on a Friday night is the absolute best time to restock the shelves?

#3 Express lane means 10 or F-E-W-E-R items. Most people do not think 30 cans of Spam, 6 bags of pork skins, and a quart of chocolate milk fall under this category.

#4 If you are in aforementioned "Express Lane", please do not write a check for a Hershey's bar.

And #5 (I swear this happened)- Do not, I repeat - DO NOT - EVER, bring your fucking C-A-T to the grocery! I swear to GOD, I really, truly do not believe Garfield wants to go shopping with you, especially at the grocery. Hell, even at PetSmart, these cats look like GitMo detainees, but at the godamm Kroger??? I know I heard that cat begging me to have him put down. I almost reported that fat bitch to Animal Control, but decided to get out of there before I torched the place. Actually, I think Garfield swipped some lighter fluid and a box of matches when Lardo was pricing the fat back.

I am a threat behind the wheel after all of this. I admit it. So, why in the name of all that is holy, would anyone - I mean, anyone, want to walk out in the street - no crosswalk - no light - and lots of cars (mine especially), screaming down the road right at you? Actually, I have an idea, but I'm not going to pay for some retarded crackhead's luxury stay in traction at Grady, thank you very much. If he wants three squares a day and a warm, liced blankie, he needs to sell some of that crack to an undercover, not try to get me to run him down.

So, I braked for him.

He should be lucky I wasn't in the truck.

Lovely.

Well, lookie there - it's after 12 and a Football Saturday. I hear the snap of a cold beer, the sight of unplanted azaleas, and the promise of a day that I will not get behind the wheel. All are safe - on the road, anyway.