Monday, July 12, 2004
A Series of Unfortunate Events
I got my car repaired on Friday. As usual, I was treated like a mildly retarded child molester. They actually asked me if I’ve “ever looked under the hood before.” Then they listed off thousands of problems with my vehicle that sounded like characters in a Dr. Seuss book (I severely doubt my snapdoozle was kreptingled) and basically accused me of not loving the car enough to fix them. It made me feel so worthless that I briefly wondered if the Catholic Church had indeed made the move into the auto repair market.
Despite all the fixin’, however, I was still treated to a “check engine” light about twenty minutes into my three hour journey to an out-of-town wedding on Saturday. I spent half an hour pulled over next to a cemetery checking the engine the best way I knew how—by calling friends and relatives to ask them if they thought I could just ignore it. This highly scientific poll finally resulted in a verdict of “continue until actual flames appear,” but the delay was sufficient to cause me to miss the actual ceremony, which is, as you know, the only place where there’s any chance they’ll sing “Hero” by Mariah Carey.
After a hard night of celebrating perfect love by costing the couple in question thousands of dollars in food, drink, and entertainment expenses, I rose at 7 AM Sunday so I could get back home in time for what we in the business call “a prior engagement” (read: hooker). Unfortunately, I forgot the cardinal rule of traveling, which is that one should never eat biscuits and partially-congealed gravy from a complimentary hotel continental breakfast before hitting the road. I’m actually not sure what continent it was they had in mind.
A few hours later, I made the rather dubious decision to stop for a pee break at a gas station with restrooms so filthy I felt I might contract leprosy just from looking at the condom machine. I was amused to note that there was a tastefully framed Norman Rockwell print over the never-cleaned toilet. I’m all for funding the arts, but maybe they should fund some sponges first.
I got my car repaired on Friday. As usual, I was treated like a mildly retarded child molester. They actually asked me if I’ve “ever looked under the hood before.” Then they listed off thousands of problems with my vehicle that sounded like characters in a Dr. Seuss book (I severely doubt my snapdoozle was kreptingled) and basically accused me of not loving the car enough to fix them. It made me feel so worthless that I briefly wondered if the Catholic Church had indeed made the move into the auto repair market.
Despite all the fixin’, however, I was still treated to a “check engine” light about twenty minutes into my three hour journey to an out-of-town wedding on Saturday. I spent half an hour pulled over next to a cemetery checking the engine the best way I knew how—by calling friends and relatives to ask them if they thought I could just ignore it. This highly scientific poll finally resulted in a verdict of “continue until actual flames appear,” but the delay was sufficient to cause me to miss the actual ceremony, which is, as you know, the only place where there’s any chance they’ll sing “Hero” by Mariah Carey.
After a hard night of celebrating perfect love by costing the couple in question thousands of dollars in food, drink, and entertainment expenses, I rose at 7 AM Sunday so I could get back home in time for what we in the business call “a prior engagement” (read: hooker). Unfortunately, I forgot the cardinal rule of traveling, which is that one should never eat biscuits and partially-congealed gravy from a complimentary hotel continental breakfast before hitting the road. I’m actually not sure what continent it was they had in mind.
A few hours later, I made the rather dubious decision to stop for a pee break at a gas station with restrooms so filthy I felt I might contract leprosy just from looking at the condom machine. I was amused to note that there was a tastefully framed Norman Rockwell print over the never-cleaned toilet. I’m all for funding the arts, but maybe they should fund some sponges first.
