I'm ready to tell you. Let's get into the meat of the posts. The ones that really matter. The ones that really say something. For instance the ones where I end up in the custody of the police. How's that sound?
You may remember my run-ins with the law from posts like this one: Scott Outruns the Law. Well, this one is related. You see, my faithful car Tom Celica, was whisking me off to work once again. I was making good time. I had a lot of personal issues on my mind which I was expressing through the magic of song, when all of a sudden there it was.
It was my white whale. My One Ring. My bowl-of-Trix-snatched-away-from-me-by-cruel-children.
It was, dear readers... a car that had surrendered all semblance of aerodynamics. I had seen it before, and always desired a closer look. It lacked beauty. It no longer even paid lip-service to the concept. Some foul beast had besotted a red Geo Metro hatchback with all manner of antenna. Somehow they made it more hideous and hard for me to visually process. It were a car no longer, but instead a hideous technological abomination, cast back in time from some bygone alternate future. It looked... something like this:
An "artist's" conception of the monstrosity.
And in that fate-laden moment was entranced by the Cthulhu-esque abortion of a vehicle. Unfortunately, the other drivers were not so distracted. The line of vehicles ahead of me suddenly locked up their breaks. Sensing a slow down, I tore myself away from the blood-magicks of the car and looked ahead.
The slow-down was worse than I'd thought. In that split second distracted by the radio and that damn porcupine-mobile, the traffic had come to a complete stop (using brakes... assholes). And I was already less than a car's length away from the next one. There was an instant of bullet-time; I watched the front end disintegrate; I saw the airbags deploy; and I saw the car behind me manage to stop.
Getting out before I was in control of my actions again, I sprinted to the car I had just made an emergency 50mph stop into. I think I got there faster than she expected because appearing at her window I gave her a little jolt of surprise. She was OK. Her car was OK. When I turned back to mine, this is what I saw.
I know I'm in the middle of a four-lane highway, but damn, this looks blogable.
According to Toyota, the car runs best with those fluids inside the engine.
The airbags didn't actually do much besides total the car and make it smell horrible.
The cops showed up, talked to me, read my license plate in the cop phonetic alphabet, and threw me in the back of the squad car.
In the end, the cops were very accommodating. They let me get all my stuff out of the car, and then promptly dropped me off at a Denny's, and also gave me no ticket. What I had instead was a quest. A fire. I would find the man who drives that Red Abomination Machine. And when I had him before me he would have to answer for what he did to Tom Celica (not to mention his own ride).
I'm compiling a dossier on him. So far I know that he frequents 270 between 170 and Dorsett road on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. Generally towards the 8:00 hour. My plan is to be late for work one day so that I can follow him, stop him somehow, and demand an explanation for his distraction contraption.
In the next post: my new (and improved) ride.
- Scott
P.S. Sorry this is an immense word-dump. But these memories are seared into my brain. And apparently read-only. So no editing this time around.
DAMN, Higgins. You really did a number on Tom. Sorry, man. Question: Can I still call you Higgins if you are now without Tom Celica, or am I going to have to come up with a new nickname for you based on the new/improved ride?
ReplyDeleteYour call Local H,
ReplyDeleteIn my head you were always referring to Henry Higgins anyway, because I was once forced, Clock Orange-esque to watch My Fair Lady over, and over, and over, and over.
I think part of the next post will be naming the car. Since I haven't come up with anything that quite fit. But just so you know, I always answer to certain names. They are:
* Han Solo
* His Divine Presence
* Ender
* Reverend
* THE Scott Gresham
It's really up to you.
I'll miss you, Tom Celica.
ReplyDeleteGlad you're okay, Scotty. Those airbags look like little more than plastic shopping bags stapled to your steering wheel, but I guessed they worked.
Because I used to drive around in the official seating position of the unconsciously cool, no they didn't work. I was too far away from the airbag for it to actually make contact with me. However, the powder from the blast did get all over me, and make me smell like burning hair.
ReplyDeleteNeedless to say, I was aces with the ladies that day. Especially the ones on the bus with me.
- Scott
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ReplyDeleteNot to be an insufferable pedant (cough), but it is Requiescat in Pace. That is all.
ReplyDeleteJacob and pedantic shouldn't be mentioned in the same sentence. I think it's much better to combine them into a word: jacantic. As an unintended bonus, it sounds like a Ska band.
ReplyDeleteAnd anyway, I meant what I wrote. It literally was supposed to mean a song for the dead... covered in Pace Picante sauce. Tom would have liked that.
But for the sake of the pedants, I've changed it.
since we're being pedantic, it's "brakes" and not "breaks" -- although in this case maybe breaks is more appropriate.
ReplyDeleteGlad you're OK. Also, I can't believe you took pictures practically as it happened. Awesome.
1. The visual of you standing amid a four-lane highway to take a cell phone snapshot of your car made me laugh.
ReplyDelete2. You forgot that you also answer to "Bean"
3. I think the new car should be something robot/computer related seeing as it is "hackable."
4. Next time you have a instance with the police I want you to have them pose with you in some from of an action shot. Bonus points if they draw their guns. Triple points if it's the "The Police" (still on tour until June).
You are the biggest blogslacker EVER. BASTARD. What's up now?
ReplyDeleteDid you just make a cthulu reference? Man, don't fuck with cthulu. Btw, I know this is a month past and you've movee onto another priapus beauty, but I'm sorry about your ride.
ReplyDelete