What Do You Think You're Looking At, Sugar Tits?
Yeah, I disappeared again; but this time I have a really good excuse. Not to mention a really long story:
On Thursday afternoon I was driving North on I-95 on my way hope from work and I was feeling great. I had arranged to take Friday off and was planning on catching up on my blogging and doing some more work on my tiny plastic Roman army: and then the engine of my vintage 1989 Geo Spectrum simply stopped running.
It was a good thing that I was going roughly 85 mph, as this gave my Chevy enough momentum to allow me to make it to the side of the highway. Now, the total sum of my knowledge of automobiles is so small that could almost squeeze into Rick Santorum's jockstrap, but there is one problem I am able to diagnose: when a timing belt has been called home by the holy trilogy of Manny, Moe, and Jack*. No problem; I have Triple A Plus. They'll tow my sorrow ass to Hong Kong and back for free. I'll just whip out my cell phone and…oh, when did the battery on my Nokia die? Maybe my phone's grief over the sudden death of the timing belt was too much for it to bear? No problem; there are signs for gas stations and fast food joints clearly visible in the distance. I'll just walk cross over…OK, when did I-95 get jammed with traffic? Not more than fifteen minutes ago my fellow travelers and I were gleefully surpassing the speed limit. Now the cars are still moving, although much slower than before, but there's no space between them: at least not enough to allow me to sprint across six lanes of traffic.
Fortunately I'd walked some distance from my car. Why was this fortunate? Because I have a metallic fish on the back of my car; however, unlike most metallic fish on the back cars, my fish has legs and it doesn't have the name "Jesus" written inside it: written inside my fish is the name "Darwin". Now, most of the time, a Darwin fish is a pretty nice thing to have on the back of your car, as it doesn't slow you down or decrease your gas milage while simutaniusly allowing you to feel smugly superiour to the superstitious morons changing lanes all around you. "Ha, ha. Nice 'Abortion stops a beating hear' bumper sticker, assmonkey", you think, "what the fuck was it that stopped your brain?"
The only time when a Darwin fish seems to be an actual hindrance would to appear to be when a car sporting one breaks down. It's been my experience that when a car (or, more often, a mini-van) with a Jesus fish on the back breaks down, the number of the drivers fellow Christians who pull to the side of the road to assist are legion. While I've never actually seen a car with a Darwin fish broken down by the side of the highway (other than my own), this only heightened my apprehension, as these cars are no doubt rapidly set upon by thongs of rabid Theists who drag them into the woods and burn them (along with their drivers) as heretics.
But, as I said, I was far enough away from my car that and conditional Samaritan good easily mistake my Darwin fish for that other kind. Now I just needed to look the part of a stranded Believer, so I buttoned the top button on my shirt and began to loudly describe the many delicious ways in which shrimp may be prepared to no one in particular. I hadn't even made it to Shrimp Ala Mode before someone pulled up and offered their assistance.
If this were being written to appear in the Letters section of Penthouse, that someone would've been a van filled with college cheerleaders. As it was, that someone turned out to be the old lady who lived in the trailer park from the Blair Witch. Gentle reader, I know that I am often accused of exaggeration. That's why I implore you to believe what I'm about to tell you:
One of those cars that eerily resemble a Ford Pinto, tastefully painted in several shades of primer grey and driven by the aforementioned trailer park woman from the Blair Witch, pulls up. The Blair Witch woman kindly asks it there's anything she can do to help. Resisting the urge to say "Why yes; would you happen to know the whereabouts of three campers who were making a student film in the woods?" I ask if I can borrow her cell phone which see readily offers. I was reaching in her passenger side window when I heard the growling. While the sight of a pure black hound dog curled up on the floor of the back seat of the car was rather unsettling, it hardly prepared me for the object adjacent to the animal: a bundle of sticks!
Moving right along: I called Vienna and told her where I was and asked her to call Triple A. I then thanked the lady from the Blair Witch and walked back to my car and settled in to wait for the tow truck. That's when it occurred to me that I might be waiting for a while so it might be a good idea to walk over to the bushes and empty my bladder [Helpful hint: Always check the area first for signs of Neil Patrick Harris]. Normally I would refrain for discussing my bodily functions, but this episode has great bearing on the rest of the story. As I was exiting the underbrush ("Still shaking the bushes, boss.") a mini-van pulled up behind mine. The driver stuck his head out the window and hollered, "Say there; need any help? I noticed your Jesus fish and…hey; wait a minute! That dunna say 'Jesus'! Why, that says…Da…Dar…Dara…Well, whatever it says, it dunna say 'Jesus'".
Next, as if on cue a Cadillac, steam billowing from under its hoods, it's bumper covered with "Jesus Saves" stickers pulls up about ten yards ahead of my abominationmobile. The guy in the mini-van leaps out and runs around my car and heads straight for the Caddy. With a shrug of my shoulders, I follow behind.
As it turned out, Jesus, Mohammed, Buddha, and El Renaldo Hubbardo (The Mexican L. Ron Hubbard) all praying together couldn't have gotten that Cadillac moving again. "Look," I say to the ice wagon's driver "I'm waiting on Triple A. Maybe they can help you out when they get here."
"I don't think so", says the elderly man behind the wheel, "I don't have Triple A. Heck, I don't even have insurance on this thing." Later, when a State Trooper stops by to check out the situation, the old gentleman in the Cadillac repeats this line.
Fast Forward: Triple A tows me back to Philly and drops my car outside the garage. When I finally get home I make a dash for the shower where I discover that my short trip to the bushes has left three ticks on my body. Great. Now I have no car and Spotted Lyme Disease Syndome. "At least things can't get any worse," I thought. And then I noticed the rashes from the Poison Ivy.
So, instead of spending my three-day weekend relaxing and catching up some projects, I spent it confined to bed and grumbling about all of the things I could be accomplishing if I didn't currently resemble a resident of Molokai.
It would've been the worst weekend ever had not Mel Gibson been arrested on Friday night and charged with drunk driving. Immediately upon hearing the news I turned to Vienna and said "I wonder if he started shouting some crazy shit about the Jews?" As it turned out, despite what appears to be the best efforts of the LACounty Sheriff's department to gloss over the incident, Mad Mel did, indeed shout some crazy shit about the Jews (and picked up bonus crazy points by screaming "What do you think you're looking at, sugar tits?" to a woman cop). It's not that I'm psychic; it's just that I've always been able to spot a scum-sucking Jew-hater at a thousand paces, and I had Mel Gibson pegged from Day One. I always knew, and maybe you did too, that one day Gibson would be standing in a police station babbling on about how "the Jews are responsible for all the wars in the world."
Every war, Mel? If only Homer had known.
I'm gonna seize the moment and put all anti-Semetic shitbags on notice. That means you, Mel, your fucknuts father, and especially you Delaware's Indian River School District.
What the fuck am I talking about? I'm too pissed off to go into the details, so do me a favor and read this piece or this one (which contains a Borat reference. If Mel Gibson would've watched the Ali G. Show he would've known how to protect himself from the Jew when he comes at you with his claws) and ask yourself how these hateful dirtfuckers have been allowed to get away with this shit for so long.
* Emanuel "Manny" Rosenfeld, Maurice "Moe" Strauss, Moe Radavitz and Graham "Jack" Jackson? Holy shit! Two-thirds of the Pep Boys were part of the International Jewboy Conspiracy!