Tales in Hot Pink is a semi-weekly column by our fearless leader. Like all management, he is not required to tell the truth, represent himself accurately, or trouble himself with reality in any way. And, in keeping with our corporate style, he is not bound by good taste or specific subject, so he may ramble wildly from topic to topic. As his employees, we encourage this, because the day is long and we are frequently bored.
|
Flat
"Damn," the tow truck driver marveled. "That thing's all ripped to shreds." The driver's name was Chet. Or he was wearing Chet's name badge. Whoever he was, he smelled bad, so I didn't feel the need to clarify. "Yep," I agreed, looking over his shoulder at the torn remnants of my front passenger side tire. "All ripped to shreds," I repeated. "Can't believe your temporary tire blew up on you," he said, shaking his head with disbelief. "Me either," I said. "It's bad enough to have one flat, but when your spare goes, you know for sure that God hates you." "Ain't that the truth," the driver agreed. We watched my car as the winch sluggishly hauled it onto the flatbed. "Aren't temporaries supposed to last until you can get another full size tire?" I asked. "They're supposed to," he said. "As long as you don't drive too fast on them. How fast were you going?" I shrugged. "Not too bad," I said. "Eighty, ninety," I estimated. "You're only supposed to go thirty five." "Ah," I said, nodding. Chet shook his head with disappointment. "They ain't built for speed. You can't go too fast or drive on 'em for too long. How long ago did you put it on?" "About a year and a half ago," I told him. He looked at me blankly. "When I got the oil changed," I explained. "You haven't had your oil changed in a year and a half?" "It's on my to do list," I admitted. "I'm waiting for people to buy enough copies of my book." "Your oil's supposed to be changed every three thousand miles," he told me. "Every three thousand?" I asked with amazement. "Yeah," he nodded emphatically. I snapped my fingers with sudden realization. "Do you think that's why I always get black smoke coming from under the hood?" I asked excitedly. "Could be," he nodded. I shook my head and smiled, relieved to have at least one persistent mystery in my life explained. "I always thought that was exhaust," I said. "Difficult as hell to drive, trying to see through that jet black smog." "I bet," Chet said, looking away from me. "Nice to know I can have that fixed," I said. "Yeah," Chet agreed, fiddling with the winch controls. "I should do that," I decided. "Get the oil changed, maybe have the brakes looked at." "You got brake problems, too?" he asked, looking back at me. "Some minor brake problems," I admitted with a shrug. "What, exactly?" "They don't work." "Not at all?" I shook my head. "I usually just shut the car off when I want to slow down. Sometimes I'll pull up against a guard rail if I need to stop quickly." "That doesn't sound safe," Chet mentioned, looking slightly alarmed. "It takes practice," I admitted. "You hit things at first, but you start to get pretty good after a while. I probably wouldn't even know what to do with brakes if I had them now." Chet fell silent and we watched my car settle into place on the flatbed. Then he handed me a clipboard to sign. "So," Chet asked, after I scribbled my poor excuse for a signature. "What shop do you want to take this to?" "Back to my place," I said. "I do all my own car work." "You do?" "Yeah," I sighed casually, trying to be modest. "I put that air freshener in myself," I said, pointing. "Nice job," he told me. I could tell he was jealous. "Do you want me to drive?" I asked. "No," Chet said quickly, making sure he still had his keys. "I'll handle it." I shrugged. Chet was obviously worried I might teach him a thing or two about how a real driver handles the road. "Your call," I said smugly, and climbed into the cab.
|
||
| A collection of more diseased madness below. Check
out a few, and then buy The Reluctant
Prophet. We won't tell
anyone what you spent your grocery money on. No one needs to
know. We can keep it just between us.
|
||
|
E-mail feedback, jokes or nekkid pickchures to Tom at:
|
