Home
It’s the most shittiest time of the year. It’s the crap-crappiest season of all. All the kids and their crying; impulsively buying more shit at the mall… It’s the crap-crappiest season of all.
Some people really don’t like the holidays, and I’m one of them. No, I’m not Jewish, or Arab, or part of any other non-Christmas celebrating sect. As a child, I loved Christmas. The anticipation, the excitement, the lights, the tree, the music, family, not going to school for two weeks. It was fanfuckingtastic! More stimulation than a child should have. Maybe that’s why I’ve grown to despise late December. I totally understand why my paternal grandfather always called it “Kissmyass.”
Everyone and their goddamn great uncle’s cousin twice removed is in your pocket. Food banks are begging for food for the throngs of hungry homeless; the Salvation Army of bellringers clanging at every department store, grocery store and post office in an eight thousand mile radius; Christmas Seals apparently needs money for more cigarettes; it’s an interminable stream of pleading for money. Here’s an idea: Give the gift of get off my fucking back. Everywhere you go, it’s “save the starving, feed the dying, make the guy with a credit card feel guilty.” I’m just tired of it all.
And while I’m in a pissy, bitching mood, what the fuck is up with the stores? Jesus H. McChristmas, people! I went to Wal-Marché last weekend to get my inhaler prescriptions filled and pick up a few things we needed at the house. I think every fat Navy wife with their waterhead kids in the entire Pacific Fleet was in that store… and they’re rude as fuck! I’m going to write a book. “Wafwot’s Rules for Shopping in Modern Civilization.”
Rule #1: When pushing your shopping cart, move to the side of the goddamn aisle! I don’t know how many times I’ve headed down an aisle only to be aisle-blocked by some elderly Flip comparison shopping, trying to save that one tenth of a penny per pound of rice. It’s rice! You need to buy a ton to save a nickel. Pick up a box and move the fuck out of my way! Nothing pisses me off more than using another aisle to bypass a ailse-blocker, only to discover they’re now blocking the other end of the aisle!
Rule #2: Don’t talk to your friends in the middle of a high-traffic aisle. Yeah, yeah. We get it. You haven’t seen Steve since 1982, when you stole a bottle of Bacardi 151 from your daddy, got drunk, and sodomized the barnyard animals of old man Kotter’s farm. Catch up on your own fucking time, or take the conversation to Arts and Crafts, or Women’s Underwear. You’re creating a cart traffic jam for the entire store with all that jaw-jacking!
Rule #3: The rules of the highway pertain to shopping carts, too! If you’re in a store in the United States, and you’re pushing a cart down an aisle, keep right motherfucker! The only time you should be on the left side of the aisle is if you’re heading the other direction, or you’re passing some inconsiderate shit-eater who’s breaking Rule 2. I can’t count how many times I’ve got stuck between end caps, waiting for some supersize black woman trailing a bus load of crying children, like Mother Goose with a gaggle of goslings… one after another.
Rule #4: Pick up the pace! How many times have you been stuck being some crippled old fuck that’s shopping as they walk? They’re moving at the speed of smell, molesting every product they pass. If you’re 65 years old or older, this rule states that you’re only allowed to shop Monday through Friday between 10:00am and 4:00pm. Us faster moving folks will be at work, so slap on that wig and push that walker all you want during those 30 hours.
Rule #5: If you can’t control your kid, or your kid is acting like the spawn of Satan, screaming and crying to beat the band, then we as a shopping public have the inalienable right to bitch slap the fuck out of you and your misbehaving uterine litter. Congress should pass a law giving the public the ability to legally punch spoiled little brats in the throat as to crush the larynx, preventing further noise from their chocolate-coated faces.
It’s a short book, but I’ll leave it open-ended so we can add amendments to it. It’ll be a living document. If you have any additions, add ‘em to the comments below.
Okay, enough Kissmyass for now.
With all the money I sunk into my truck in November, you’d think it was in tip-top condition. However, you’d be wrong. It’s not a major tragedy, but I was sitting in a fast-food drive-through Tuesday night, and I heard what sounded like pouring water. It sounded very much like a circus animal urinating on pavement. Possibly a lengthy emesis of an intoxicated teenager splashing on linoleum of a high school hallway. Since it was raining out, I didn’t think much of it. However, I kept an eye on my dashboard gauges just in case.
I got my food and the temperature looked okay. About a mile from the Jack in the Box, the temperature was climbing, and I knew something happened to my damned cooling system. Sonofabitch! I was only about a mile from home, but I wasn’t going to make it that far. The gauge got to “H” at the top of a hill, and luckily, I was able to coast down the other side and let the December night air cool the engine down enough for me to make the final hundred yards of my trip home. The engine got as hot and steamy as Tommy and Pamela, but never went above the “H.”
The next morning, Tina and I went out and looked at the damage. We found a long messy gash on the underside of the lower radiator hose. Just as with women, long messy gashes are not good. I wasn’t taking the truck anywhere without replacing that hose, and I had an 11:00am doctor’s appointment. LDriver came and gave me a lift to the doctor’s, then we hit the auto parts store where I picked up a hose and a new thermostat. When I got home, I realized I asked for and bought an upper radiator hose, when I needed to replace the lower hose. Goddammit. Three hours would pass before I could get another ride to the auto parts store for the correct hose.
Once I had the correct hose, LDriver and I worked on taking the blown hose off my truck. I swear to fuck, there’s hardly any room to work in that engine compartment. It’s nothing at all like my old Mustang. You’d have more room to work if you were fingering a nun. No shit! On top of that, the hose just didn’t want to come off. We worked on prying that bitch off the water pump for more than an hour! It finally popped off with the help of a broom stick. The right tool for the… job. What the shit, man? Putting the new hose on was a bit easier, but not much. I coated the inside of the hose ends with oil, and LDriver and I tried to shove that hose onto the water pump. Only a priest raping a fourth grader would have a tighter fit. After another 30 minutes, it was finally good to go! I tightened down the clamps with a socket wrench, and filled that bitch with water.
My ass is fucking beat! I look like I was beat up by twenty three 5-year olds; scrapes and knicks on my knuckles, bruises on my arms, a deep fat bruise on my leg. Fuck, the hood latch left about seven bruises on my stomach. I look like I was caught in the crossfire of rubber bullets. I ache all over and feel like I was rolled by a ‘ho and her pimp, left for dead in a Motel 6. This getting old shit sucks ass.
All’s well now… or is it? I didn’t have a chance to replace the antifreeze in the system, and the temperatures are going to drop below freezing tonight. It fucking figures. Since I have to drive to Seattle on Friday, I’m going to have to go out tonight and get some antifreeze. Shit! It’s 10:00pm as I’m typing this.
I need to trade my truck in for a new(er) truck…
