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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
So, I finally gave in and took the car to the garage yesterday.
(I know, I know — I said I wouldn’t. But dammit, you try looking into those puppy dog headlights and saying, ‘no‘ to that car. It’s not possible. It’s not like she’s a fat ugly Hyundai or something.)
Actually, I took the car to the dealer. The eeeevil dealer. You know the kind; hell, maybe you’ve got a local eeeevil car dealer in your town, too. The kind that grin at you when you walk in, because they know they’re just about to stick. It. To. You. But. Good.
The only time we go to the dealer is when that annoying little ‘Service Engine Soon‘ light comes on. Anything else — a broken tail light, a dent in the fender, bees nesting in the glove compartment, that sort of thing — and we take our vehicular reaming at another garage, thank you very much. At least they buy you dinner before they bend you over and whip out the grease guns. Figuratively speaking, of course. About the dinner. Bah.
Anyway, this dealer garage dealie blows hippos. And every time that damned light comes on in the car, we’re out another few hundred bucks. Because it’s never something simple. Oh no — that would be too easy. A malfunctioning sensor, or an easy-to-get-at-and-replace valve — these sorts of issues are out of the question entirely. Sure, the grease monkeys mention the simple stuff when you call them up:
‘Oh, yeah, bring the car in. It’s usually just a shorted bulb, or a frayed wire. No problem.‘
Then you take them the car, and they call back and say:
‘Well, gee, we looked into it, and actually, it’s your transmission. Apparently, the car didn’t come with one, so we’ll have to build you a new one. From scratch. And we have to order the parts. From Romania. And it’s East Romania, so it’s going to be a little pricier.‘
Dildos. Actually, this trip involved three calls — count ’em: one, two three; backwards: three, two, one; now in Spanish: uno, dos, tres; and finally, in Roman: I, II, III — because the problem apparently kept getting worse, and worse, and worse, as the day went on. Me, I think the mechanic had money on a few ball games, and kept losing, so he upped the charges to pay off his bookie. But I’m cynical that way. Maybe I was just paying for his kid’s braces, or his grandma’s new lung. You never know.
At any rate, they found one problem — a ‘simple little thing‘, they said — and called about that. Then, when they ‘got in there‘, they found a couple more issues. And finally, when they tried ‘cleaning the pipes‘, one snapped or split or magically insta-rusted or something, so they had to install a new one. From scratch. And they had to order the part. You see? You see where this is heading? Douchebags.
(Actually, to be fair, they didn’t order the part from Romania, just New York. But it was East New York, so it was a little pricier. Le sigh.)
If that doesn’t convince you, here’s the best proof I’ve got that the garage is — say it with me now, kids — eeeevil. The total charge this trip? $666. That’s right — six hundred and sixty-six dollars. They should just call the place Beelzebub Motors, shove a flaming pitchfork up your ass when you bring your car in, and get it over with. At least there’d be no question then. Hell, I’m not looking for an honest garage; that’s crazy talk. I just want truth in advertising; is that too much to ask?
Permalink | 2 CommentsSome say life is like a box of chocolates, because ‘you never know what you’re going to get’.
These people are idiots. Who the hell adopts a quote from a ‘slow’ movie character as their personal motto, anyway? Hey, I saw Forrest Gump. I saw Rain Man, too, but you don’t see me nodding sagely and proclaiming, ‘I’m an excellent driver. Excellent driver.‘ when things take a turn for the worse. You might as well quote Ace Ventura. Losers.
Others say that life is like a rose, delicate and beautiful but cursed with thorns.
These people should be wearing black sackcloth and flagellating themselves at an emo concert somewhere. Bunch of overdramatic, weepy, tearjerk jockeys, if you ask me. ‘Beautiful but thorny,’ they say, all misty-eyed. Boo hoo. In my book, ‘beautiful but thorny’ is a stripper wearing a cactus G-string. Or a cheerleader stuck in a briar patch. But ‘life’? No. Wax your poetics elsewhere, Emerson wanna-bes.
Then there are those who say life is like a river, or an ocean, or a lake.
Why? I don’t know — maybe because it’s wet, cold, and full of fish pee. You’d have to ask the treehugging yahoos who say this kind of thing. Sorry, the apparently bedwetting treehugging yahoos — because why else would they be so obsessed with aqueous analogizing? Answer me that, Poseidon pusher.
So what is life like? What’s it really like? Well, I have a few ideas on the matter. And they’ve got to be better than the pap most people spew, right? Don’t answer yet — let’s just see.
‘Life is like a stint in juvie.‘:
The first little while is scary, but soon you realize that you could be in far worse places, with a hairy roommate named Fangs and only a hole to poop in. And in the back of your mind, you know that’s where you’re probably headed eventually. Because you’re incorrigible.
‘Life is like sex with an Armenian hooker.‘:
It’s exciting and exotic, but you really don’t understand it as well as you think you do, which is probably going to cost you a lot of money along the way. It might also give you a nasty disease. Also, the longer it goes on, the more hair you discover in places where hair shouldn’t be.
‘Life is like a bowl of three-alarm chili.‘:
No matter how much spice you like, there’s just a little more than you can handle. Drinking plenty of water will help you get through more of it, but when it’s over, you’ll be sweating just as much as the rest of us. And remember: as much as it hurt coming in, it’ll be at least as painful going out the other end.
‘Life is like a trip past the Fun House mirrors.‘:
First, you’re very small. Then, you’re tall and skinny. Next, you’re fat and squishy. And at no time do you look anything remotely like the way you want to look. Also? There will probably be clowns nearby to laugh at you.
‘Life is like being Larry Flynt.‘:
Early on, there’s some sex and partying, but you can never really get enough. Then, some fundy psycho will shoot you or something, and you’ll need a wheelchair to get around. So you’ll still be a big horny perv, but nobody will really pay attention after a while. Oh, and in the movie version, Courtney Love will get naked a lot, and then drown in a bathtub. So that’ll be nice.
‘Life is like a trip to the dentist.‘:
It’s mostly scary, though it doesn’t last as long as you might think. If you’re good, it’s usually a bit shorter, but relatively painless. If you’re bad, you may end up getting drilled, or stuck with nasty needles. Either way, at the end, there’s nothing but a sucker and a bill to be paid. And insurance never seems to cover it.
‘Life is like milking your cat.‘:
Nobody else is going to do it quite the same way as you would — and some people probably would rather you didn’t do it at all. Which means that very few people will appreciate whatever it is you’re trying to accomplish. On the other hand, if you work hard enough, you can make your own cheese. Scrumptious!
‘Life is like a stripper wearing a cactus G-string.‘:
It’s beautiful, but thorny. Also, the more money you have, the longer it’s likely to stick around. Not forever, but probably long enough to make your crotch tingle in three or four different ways — and not all of them good ways, either.
See? Better. I told you. Box of chocolates, indeed. Life is a rose — puh-lease. I’ll take my Armenian hooker and Larry Flynt life any day over that nonsense. So what’s your life like, then?
Permalink | 6 CommentsWow. That was some weekend, eh?
Thank the gods for that Columbus guy — and never mind that he didn’t know his East Indies from a hole in the ground. Or that the Vikings discovered North America. Or that somebody thought enough of Amerigo Vespucci to name the country after him, and all Columbus got was a sleepy little podunk town in Ohio. They gave Columbus the holiday, and that gives me a Monday off. You go, there, Magellan Light.
It was a good weekend for an extra resticle day, too. The wedding on Saturday took a lot out of me. It was fun, but exhausting — like a good long run, or a night of boogieing down, or sex in a Volkswagen, maybe. Here’s all you need to know about Saturday night: I took three pictures on my camera phone during the reception. One was of a peacock — really, a real, live peacock, up close and personal. The next was a full glass of Guinness. And the last was a woman wielding a knife. Now if that’s not a Saturday night party, people, then I don’t know what is. Maybe I should have rested today, too.
But no. I worked. Okay, okay — so, really, I drove to the office, snuck into the office down the hall, and took a nap in the new girl’s chair.
(What? It’s not like I can sleep at my desk, what with my officemate always tippy-tap-typing on his keyboard. Besides, I drool in my sleep — and lord knows there’s enough spittle on my keyboard already. Share the saliva, I always say.)
Of course, I didn’t nap all afternoon. I sat in a meeting and acted all surly, too. You know the guy who goes to meetings and folds his arms, and shakes his head sadly at every suggestion, and goes, ‘Pffffftttttttt‘ when you ask his opinion? Yeah, I’m practicing to be that guy. Right now, I’m that guy’s understudy. He does all that stuff, and if people still harass him, he looks at me with his ‘can you believe these people?‘ look. And then I throw my hands in that ‘I know, I know, but what can you do — killing them would be illegal‘ way, and we share a little giggle. Meetings are fun!
So, that’s one day of work down this week, and only three more to go. Three more days to ‘tsk‘ through meetings, and use the new girl’s dirty Post-Its for pillows.
Which is probably safer than using the new girl’s dirty pillows for Post-Its, come to think of it. I’m not sure I could talk her into that, for starters. And she’d probably wash all the writing off every day, too. Also, she’s sort of flat-chested; I wouldn’t be able to write very much without turning her over and using the back. And you always get ink all over your hands when you use the back. Icky.
Well, now that this has turned all weird and Doocy, I suppose I should probably call it a night. Gotta be well-rested and ready to defend myself at the office tomorrow. Ta.
Permalink | 1 CommentToday, I’m off to a wedding. The pitcher/outfielder and first baseman on my softball team are getting married. So — assuming I’ve recovered from my illness enough to not infect the wedding guests with the bubonic plague — it should be fun.
(And in case you’re wondering, yes, it’s a co-ed team. Our ‘first baseman’ is really a… well, a ‘first basewoman’, I guess. Or ‘first baseperson’, or something. Guh.
Dammit, I’m all about this PC shit, but it just looks wrong in baseball lingo! She plays first, all right? You get the point.)
Anyway, it promises to be a good time. And it has the double secret-nil added bonus of being not-far-away, but still hotel-room-worthy. Which might have more to do with the open bar at the reception than the half-hour drive it’ll take to get there.
Either way, count me in. There are few things in life that are better than ‘someone else’s wedding’. You eat other people’s food, drink their booze, dance on their furniture, and then have sex in their bed. It’s like being a gigolo. Or a babysitter. Or that plumber I called last week.
(That’s the last time I ask a gigolo to recommend a plumber. And my pipes are still squeaky. Which may or may not be a euphemism at this point. Whoo.)
Anyway, the only thing better than sex at someone else’s wedding is sex at your own. And not just because it’s the last sex you might ever have, either. Am I right? Back me up here, married men.
I remember at our wedding, the newly-named missus and I disappeared to our room for two and a half hours. Yeah. We weren’t having sex, though. No. She wanted to open wedding presents.
(I thought I could still get her, though. I slipped into the bathroom, stripped naked, and tied a red ribbon around my ‘package’. I slinked back into the room and said:
‘Honey, I’ve got a wedding present you can open.‘
She looked at me, tsked, and said:
‘Pfft. I’ve seen that. But I’ve never had a gravy boat before!‘
‘Til death do we part’, this goes on. Just peachy.)
So, that’s where I’ll be this Saturday afternoon — spending a half-hour in church, so’s I’m allowed to drink and eat and drink and dance and drink and collapse the night away. If somebody could wrap a religion around that, I might get back to church more often. That’s my kind of service, baby. Hallelujah.
Permalink | 1 CommentSo. Looks like I’ve got strep throat.
Don’t worry; it’s probably not contagious any more. I wouldn’t lick my monitor while you’re reading the site for a couple of days, but apart from that, you’re probably fine. And you can go back to tongue-loving the blog soon. Honest.
Meanwhile, after two days of staying home from work — and being largely unable to speak — the illness seems to be lifting a bit. And I’m ready, dammit — it’s not been a picnic around here this week. When I call in sick and stay home, I don’t actually want to be sick. Or home. I want to be tiptoeing across the greens on a golf course, or drinking myself loopy at a ball game. Or out licking stripper poles at some seedy nudie bar — which will get me started on my next illness, no doubt. That’s a bonus.
I never really knew what strep throat felt like, either. It’s a common enough condition — you hear about people strepping out all the time. And I’ve had it once before, back in college. But at the time, the doc told me I had strep and mono, at the same time, so it wasn’t quite the same. They gave me this wonderful, delicious medicine that tasted like stardust and happiness and had codeine and alcohol in it. I can’t tell you much about the three days I spent taking the stuff, but it was virtually pain-free. And consciousness-free. I’m pretty sure I talked to God. And Buddha. And Dumbo was there, with Mickey and Donald and Goofy and three of Snow White’s dwarves. It was magical.
This time, I slugged through it more or less medicine-free. A couple of aspirin here, some acetaminophen there, but that’s about it. These nice people were kind enough to offer their advice on home remedies, which I took to heart. Or tried to, anyway. I gargled with salt water, but it didn’t help much. I opted not to try anything alcohol-related, what with the burning already going on down my gullet. What I really wanted — what seemed like a fantastic idea — was hot tea, with lemon and honey.
But we don’t have any honey. Or lemon. It’s damned lucky we had tea bags, frankly. I like tea and all, but it’s not an everyday treat around the household. Not like pizza, or Guinness, or upside-down margaritas. So, I microwaved some water — the full extent of my culinary skills — and I had myself some hot tea. Plain. Hot. Tea. When life hands me lemons, then I’ll have some fucking lemon tea. Life handed me three-year-old Lipton tea bags instead, so here we are. Life’s persnickety that way sometimes.
Of course, just the heat, and the… well, whatever the hell is in tea — twigs? Dirt? Cremated ashes? Who knows. Whatever‘s in it, it felt pretty good going down the hatch. And it made my throat feel better, at least for a few minutes. So, for the past two days, I’ve been guzzling the stuff like its stripper sweat and showgirl squeezings. I’ve had enough tea this week to float a moose.
(How high? I don’t know. Float it where? Don’t know. It’s just an expression; don’t overthink it there, bub.)
So, here I am. One more sippy cup of the leafy stuff tonight, a full ten hours’ sleep, and I might just be ready to face the world again tomorrow. Maybe even talk to the world, too. I got through this nonsense, and dammit, I did it the natural way.
And you know what? Fuck that. Next time, I’m getting some of that codeine crap and spending the week in Wonderland again. Tea’s fine and all, but if I’m going to really be sick, I don’t wanna fricking be awake for it. Shit.
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