Trust me.... now bend over  

LadiesChoice15 37M
3 posts
2/12/2006 10:13 am

Last Read:
3/5/2006 9:27 pm

Trust me.... now bend over

This takes ricockulous to whole new levels. For the third time in two months the check-engine light in my car has turned on. The last two times this happened was the result of the gascap. The first time was because I didn't tighten the gas cap enough after I filled up the tank. The second time was because I apparently tightened it too much and the cap broke. Now, I'm from New Jersey, where we don't pump our own gas (another fun fact: we also don't take SHIT from other people about our state so speaking on behalf of all of us, Go fuck yourself, Rest Of The Country). But I just can't believe I could be that bad at something just because I've never done it before (how many teenaged girls have wanted to disabuse their already satisfied boyfriends of that notion throughout the milennia?).
I had to take my car into the dealership twice and have their mechanics smile to my face while relieving me of the burden of carrying around a lot of cash on my person (it's like Biggie says, "Mo' money, mo' problems", so maybe they're doing me a favor. And I know I used "says" instead of "said." That's because Biggie is still alive and well under an assumed identity in Buenos Aires with all those Nazi war criminals. Hip hop and nationalist socialism make strange bedfellows).
I don't care that they're trying to shaft me. I'm no communist (surprising, considering all the Chinese people in my lab) and I know the nature of the beast that is capitalism. What I can't stand is the duplicity. They're uber-curteous (damn, no umlauts in this text editor) to you when you first show up but after you've dropped off your car and you're at their mercy they stick it to you. I could accept the last part of that scenario if not for the first part. Don't whisper sweet nothings in my ear while you're planning to violate me like I'm the new guy on the cell block and you're the grizzled old neo-nazi from Oz (though having a swastika burned into my derriere would go a long way towards offsetting the little butterfly I currently have on my lower back. That's what happens when you combine blackout drinking with a deep and abiding love for lepidopterology).
I guess I've been spoiled my entire life having an auto mechanic as my father. He can't screw me over. He's genetically obligated to act in my best interest. Without me, who's going to ensure the survival of his lineage. As a matter of fact, with all that blackout drinking, he should probably show some gratitude for all the bastard grandchildren I've more likely than not given him over the years.
Now, while I'm certainly not an expert in automotive repair I think I'll wait for a more obvious sign that my car is in need of some work before I take it to the shop. Like maybe a cylinder blowing through the hood causing me to lose control and careen at high speed into the local Cracker Barrel. Knowing my past luck, the guys at the dealership will probably tell me it happended because I forgot to jiggle the gas nozzle before I removed it from the tank. There's only one reasonable solution. I'm going to have to impregnate the daughters of all the grease monkeys in the area. That way, they'll all have an evolutionary incentive to hook me up with good service. The lengths a man must go through just to get from point A to point B (while taking advantage of some blue collar chicks at points C, D, and E).


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