So.
Mechanics. You know what mechanics are? They’re the smarter bullies. You know how the paradigm demands that the jocks wash out and marry the cyclops from futurama, living for nothing but tales of past glory, and the nerds they oppressed are supposed to grow up to be sort of driven by that mockery, becoming internet savy genius mega brains from beyond the end of time, finally using money and status to attain all that those sadly already peaked former athletic stars once had?
Well mechanics are dicks that don’t get that. They got it at first. They got the going to shit part, but at some point they realized this dialetic is fucked and decided to strike a sort of blow for the reverse re-rebalancing of the system.
They are like the fucking Spacing Guild, all blah blah blah we are the only ones that know how your expensive means of transportation works.
It pisses me off when everything they fix works and is not fucked up.
Now right now, everything they fixed does not work and is fucked up.
I go to this mechanic, he fixes my busted shit quickly and at relative inexpense. OK. Fine.
I get in it and the brakes are fucked. This part totally unrelated to the part that broke in the first place is now broken. Isn’t that weird. So, “fuck that guy,” I think. “Fuck him in his fuckhole . . . or perhaps in alternate fuckholes to be sliced in the future.”
OK, I’m not going to flat out accuse the guy of something shady at this point. I’m pissed, but the two parts are far apart, and the second part could have busted as the car gave out in sort of general attempt to forfeit the strange midrange status cars have and instead opt to become a FULLY inanimate object, and the price he quoted me to fix the new part is just the part plus very reasonable labor, straight from a parts store, at cost (OK, I didn’t know that off the top of my head, but I checked).
But, he couldn’t fix it until the next day. Now, I kind of need/want (weed? nant? nwat!) my damn car back, so I take it to Big Area Chain.
Now, the local BAC outlet is right by my grandma’s house, a buddy of mine works there, and he looks at it and tells me that at any rate, the second part really is busted. He quotes me a price almost identical to the first guy, and says he can change it this afternoon. Fine, cool, groovy. This dude is OK. He is exempt from this general rant regarding mechanics.
I chill at my grandma’s for a period of hours while the auto components are exchanged. I watch Judge Mathis, a historical special on the history of the samurai. FYI: The guy that invented harikari was so fucking HC he sank a boat with a bow. He killed a wooden vehicle with an arrow, dudes. It does not come any harder core then that. No guff, son. Also, the climatic charge in The Last Samurai was a Tom Cruise inclusive depiction of actual events. That includes that final charge into the guns. Imagine it: the last 300 feudal knights on earth running at a full gallop, armed only with bladed weapons and bows, against 200 fifty thousand military men (keep in mind: The entire US military is about a million). They didn’t do it because they thought they would win – they did it because they saw a way to ride into eternity. They chose to die along with their way of life. They chose honor and the chance history would speak well of them over an assured future. Would you give up your old age for that? Would you give up your children or your job or your comforts for that?
Moved, shaken, and bemused that I know about these events because of scientolgy and it has thus done good inspite of itself, I watch a WSOP circuit event, and watch jennifer harman take a hella beat for second. Like one of those one outers. Poor girl only winning 500 “gs” as they say, as opposed to the larger number of “gs” attained by the “winner.”
Ah, I shouldn’t quotate winner like that. The guy played good all day, he was just a little behind in that hand. The frenchy dickwad they put out third was fun to watch lose, at any rate.
THEN it is fixed, and I drive to judo. My car is back to good but not great at this point. The engine and brakes work. I am unpissed. It’s about like it was, perhaps even running a little better then before it breaks down.
I go to judo, I apply many submissions and in turn, I am submitted. It is a zen microcosm of the universe, all the more beautiful because of the risk involved. It’s painful, it’s artful, it’s desperate and elegant at the same time, etc, etc. poetry of war etc etc. It’s probably also disturbingly homoerotic to an uneducated observer, but I could give a shit as I just really want to lock some joints at this point. Judo goes well and is the highpoint of my day. I reversed a guillotine choke correctly and while I was thrown, I fell like a giant, beefy snowflake and sports-related pain is minimized. TUF 5 here I come. Whatever.
I stagger home for some gatorade and three hours of sleep.
My mom drops by to get her car back. ( I am asleep at this point). She says, “Hey, what the fudge, I’ll drive the motherfudger just once (see how I make my mom seem like a non-swearer? She’s not. She’s REALLY not.)
She wakes me up to tell me the original fucking part does not appear to be fixed correctly and gas has begun to comingle with oil in my engine once again.
Now this mechanic, his name is on the front of his shop. I could look it up in a phone book, and since it’s already night and my shirt’s already black, all I need is a grappling hook and a cowel, and it’s motherfucking go-time.
BUT . . . I don’t have a unique vehicle (grr) or an underage circus clown/obvious bottom in a brightly colored costume, and work beckons. So I take my mom’s zippy little jeep to work. She says she will take it back to the mechanic in the morning, so that my bill will not end up including things like tooth veneers or plate glass windows. I, meanwhile, go to work and invent the verb “Stranglefuck” (or at least use it for the first time in a non-INXS related context).
Now you are up to date.