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Today |
.I'm a clean freak. It's within my nature to keep my living area, kitchen, bathroom, and body exceedingly clean. I take two showers a day because I can't stand going to sleep with a day's worth of dead- skin-buildup coating my epidermis. Everything I have consistent contact with is scrubbed down, inside and out, quite regularly… with one exception. I have a 1994, pearl-white Ford Tempo. I hate cleaning it, and it's a rare day when it actually happens. Seriously, if you're a passenger in my car, then you run the risk of contracting SARS and/or Monkeypox. You'd get MonkeySARS. MonkeySARS… Hee. It's not the Tempo's fault, though. I carry day to day operations in my little four-door "White Lightening". I have no qualms about eating, sleeping, or fornicating within its brittle fiber glass frame. Whereas it is normal to clean up after activities such these, I have no motivation to do so when it comes to the Tempo. Today, after a good two and half months I decided to extricate the filth … and it WAS fucking filthy. Two grocery bags filled to the brim with trash were discarded like so many a dirty heroin needle. (Okay, I reuse mine too. Hahahaha … what's AIDS?) My trunk looked like a disaster area, and I ended up filling two more bags with items I thought I'd lost long, long ago. I better sort that shit out. Minutes later… Okay, the following is a list of the crap I pulled from the trunk: • T-shirts … 2 count • Socks … 2 pair, soiled • CDs … 2, Rancid's And Out Come The Wolves plus some mix disc • Towels … 1, soiled • Shoes … 1 pair, black Etnies • Coffee Mugs … 1, "David Zuckerman, DPM" stenciled on side with a stylized foot graphic • Eeyore Miniature Christmas Stockings … 1, contained two out-dated chocolate kisses After emptying out the car I headed down to the self-service carwash. I put a twenty in the change machine and squealed with girlish delight after it spit out ten, $1 carwash tokens and $10 in quarters… laundry money, baby. I scrubbed down the Tempo's exterior, paying special attention to the insect holocaust that is my front grill. I hate having a white car. There's this attendant guy at the carwash I call Greasy Bill. His job is to pick up bits of trash (with a pair of needle-nose pliers for some reason) and make sure nobody comes to blows over the carpet shampooer. Greasy Bill also reeks of greasy booze. I think Greasy Bill got his job after the owner caught him putting AA sobriety coins into the wash machine's quarter slot. I think he was hoping to get a concentrated spray of gin. Instead he got a face full of hot wax. Ah, Greasy Bill. Whilst thou ever learn? Next stop: Jiffy Lube. It's time for my 6,000 mile check up. Actually, it's closer to 10,000 miles, but whatever. I pull up to the Jiffy Lube docking bay and get out of the Ford. Immediately I'm surrounded by three attendants armed with a barrage of queries. "Whatyearisyourcar?" "Doyouwantnewwiperblades?" "How'syourairfilter?" "Gotanytweek?" I freaked and responded in Deutsch. "Tut mir leid, Ich verstehe nicht!," Ich sagt. Not really. I answered all of their questions in a polite and patient manner. They got done servicing the Tempo … well … in a jiff. I got a new air filter and six quarts of 30-weight. Score! Get how lame I am. This morning I completed a bunch of maintenance requests in Vista Grande Restaurant at Cal Poly. The chef grudgingly asked if I wanted lunch. Hell yes I want lunch, you fat tub of goo, I've been doing grunt work for you all morning, you better be comping me a meal, BIAYTCH. Well, I get my food and sit alone at the counter, bored out of my mind with nobody to talk to. "Hmm," I thought to myself. "I haven't talked to Melinda in awhile; mayhap I'll phone her a call ... Ooh, but I don't want the VG employee's, who are cooler and much better looking than me, thinking I'm a lonely, pussy-whipped bitch who needs to call his girlfriend because he can't stand half an hour of lunch time solitude." So I pull this number… In a quick-style, I pull out my cell, call Melinda's cell, let it ring once and hang up. If Melinda sees she misses a call from me, she's all over it like a fat kid at a buffet. I wait maybe 30 seconds and my phones all "ring, ring." And I'm all, like, "Whaaa?? Oh dear, someone must be using the "telephone" to "contact" me." I answer the phone with an innocent and pensive "hello?" "Hey, did you call me?" suspicions Melinda. "Why, I don't think I did, but let's change the subject to something completely unrelated in a speedy manner," I deftly respond. She was none the wiser and still isn't …
Until she reads this…
It's insane, this guys taint - 2004-12-07 |