You know ... the guy.
Oh, yeah, right!
Monkeyjack and Scott were having a party. At that time I had two bags of liquor -- port-a-bar and mixed really bad drinks. I mixed a typical one and was drinking. I walked by the firepit and said, "This drink sucks!" I splashed it onto the fire.
Little did I know that the drink was, well, highly flammable. It roared and, I understand was orange enough to pierce the blinds and shine onto the wall. I don't think it had a sound.
My friends, now on their backs did make sounds, cursing me, the situation, and calling in pain from mild leg fires.
Uh ... oops! I could have done the fireball, I just didn't know it.
At some other event, I tried a flaming shot. I had a mustache at the time and, well, fire and hair don't mix. I didn't blow out the shot first or fast enough and I got to smell wonderful burnt hair the rest of the night. Yumm!
In a little known event, my X liked to cook chicken. At one time I did eat chicken. There was a mess of grease on the grill, as she had covered the grill with foil. It was flaming up and I thought that, after pulling the chicken, I would put out the flames with water. Dumb idea! It moved the flaming oil to -- the siding. I continued to spray the siding until the fire moved, now weaker to the porch. It eventually went out. I thereafter had a different approach to oil-based fires.
on one birthday I got, "[my first name] farts and blows out birthday candles!" Gee, thanks Dad! It was funny, certainly not what I expected. I think I was eight?!
Odd, but true: I was working at a video store and they had the typical gumball machine in the vestibule. The vestibule was tiny and open often to the cold air of winter. I went out one night, got a piece of gum and it broke my tooth. Now, how could this be? It would be from the following three factors: old gum, cold gum, possible weakness of tooth.
I don't have tattoos. I don't wear jewelry. I have scars are marks of surviving stupidity. They include: brow cut -- glasses broken on ice; forehead scar -- slamming into corner sustaining concussion; three forearm grease burns -- discoloration of skin (lack of usable pigment; wicked-looking shoulder scar from surgery; right elbow burn mark from late infection during healing; two other surgery scars; permanent indentation to right thumb from large and deep razor blade cut (pushing on pointy end); mild scalp marks from foundry work (source of elbow burn); slight rise in left palm from stitches; and permanent red, raised mark on chest from Calli the cat.
Calli -- the musical Calle, who made noises when you held her, which she did not like. She let me know, in no uncertain terms, that she didn't want held. I have that mark still today (from 1989). I think my marks tell their own stories. I don't need tattoos.
We were riding back from university and Monkeyjack tends to drive, well, dangerously*. We were stopped in traffic. There was a gap to the next vehicle. Naturally Monkeyjack should go 50 to catch up in the small space. That we did! I was thinking we were going a bit fast and slowing might be good, but I looked over. Monkeyjack is standing with both feet on the breaks. We weren't slowing, but the vehicle ahead of us did stop us.
I met the dashboard. Monkeyjack braced himself on the steering wheel. Well ... although a mess, he moved the car to the emergency shoulder. He was in the wrong. We had to wait for a cop to see the, now, three of us. The woman he hit wasn't too happy, but wasn't course. It was a busy section, so cops are often around.
His car was a mess. It bent the frame and there was some engine damage. Her car did sustain some damage ... body only.
A cop saw us and was turning around to meet us on the right side of the road. Some fool who knew the woman Monkeyjack hit saw her, but stopped looking while driving. That guy hit another person, sandwiched in between another she hit. The woman in the middle had some minor injuries (from her reactions) and her car was very badly damaged.
Monkeyjack crashes five cars. Nice one!
If I remember correctly, his car was never really the same and within a year, it was gone.
This same car took out a cement planter on someone's front lawn. Why would he be on a front lawn -- good question. He was transporting a cat. If you haven't done this fun thing, sans a car carrier, then you are in for a GRAND treat. I don't know of a cat that likes a car ride. I also don't know of any cat that willingly enters a cat carrier.
The cat, on the way to the vet, escapes in the car. Worried that he would be hurt, Monkeyjack tries to find the cat, but loses control of the car. It runs up the lawn and takes out a planter.
Bad news for him, because the neighbors (2 streets away) are royal jerks! Supposedly, the bricks are local but the mortar is from Florida. I don't get it. Anyway, the appraisal for damages is substantial, because of the rareity of the mortar. He got soaked and they got a new van. Nice!
* dangerous -- By far, I have the track record for most dangerous driving, is that I was weaving through traffic and speeding and slowing like a maniac. E. K. was talking with Monkeyjack about this jerk driver. He tried to meet up with him to give him a piece of his mind. The driver was me.
or animator of the dead:
A long-since dead Nova ... more air than metal or plastic. It had holes through the floor -- nice for meteorologists. How the thing was moving, other than on hills goes beyond me. I remember the nuts operation of changing the alternator, which required tools that fit between 2" gaps and the ability to draw it out through a maze and out the bottom. Despite the home repairs on it, it was dead. The seats had the mouse-eaten look of ages.
Mirrors were gone, holes throughout and the fenders were similar to demolition derby cars. The tires were bald and the electrical was iffy. Yet... to Jim, it was drivable. Here again, I call him the animator of the dead, for in human form, the Nova would have looked half-defleshed, missing 30% of the body mass, inching along on its mission.
His truck, later on, was another super iffy, patchwork of metal and quasi-metal.
Before the Nova was the Pinto wagon, equally as charmed as the Nova in every way, save that it was often used as a sleeping place -- in certain times. It had that real rustic feel to it. It didn't sound as iffy as the Nova, but much of the flooring was licence plates and other spare sheet metal.
Planes, Trains, and Automobiles
"Do you feel that this is a safe vehicle?"
"Yes sir, yes I do."
The Buick Century -- at that time was a common car and served me well. Its sad death was at 3:12 am on a Saturday. I was asleep when I heard a resounding crash. I looked out to see my car--folded. I ran out to look and saw the fluid trail of a destroyed radiator leak. The hit and run driver, drunk or other, left the scene. I never got anywhere with finding him.
The cops were pretty nice, since it wasn't an emergency, I waited over an hour. By that time, much of the fluid had evaporated. I saw nothing, so had little to offer. He gave me a control number and that was it. Killed by a random driver.
I called the insurance company the next day and told them I wasn't interested in having the totalled car on the policy.
"Why not?"
"Uh. It's totalled."
(silence)
"It's undrivable. I don't want to pay for something that I don't have."
"Okay. Let me check. Okay. Do you got a control number."
"Yes . #######."
"Okay. You insurance will be -- $30 more per month."
"How?"
"You no longer have a multi-car discount."
I don't suggest using Progressive, the company that I had at that time.
I wish I had a suggestion to you. My current company still charges me, I think unreasonable amount since I have no tickets on my record, nor accidents, and my car is old and [previous posts] a piece of crud. $700 annual, for that thing ... unreal! Im older ... what gives!
It was like any other trip back from school -- high school that is. MR was with me and we were traveling on the road, when I saw something in my rearview mirror ... enough to scar MR who said my eyes got very large and my legs stretched out -- as though I were jumping.
It was probably not a good idea to smash into a Pinto, but that wasn't going through the guy's mind who was behind us. D. Schwartz, also from that high school was driving like mad -- sad that he was a greater lead foot than was I, smashed into us going 55 mph. Ouch!
Ah ... what to say! I looked at the damage. Hey! You bent a corner of my licence plate. Meanwhile, his front end looked -- uh, bad. Left front headlight -- smashed ... bent bumper, broken plastic grill. Who knew I had the only Pinto not designed to explode?
I had at least four other people crash into the Pinto's rear bumper at different speeds. Its demise came from excessive damage from other things, including a guy who was going 44 in a 35, on slush, Dec. 27, 1990. I got side swiped -- time moving slowly as I hoped to twist to parallel with him on his mad dash into destiny. I had cinder blocks in the back to weigh it down.
After the hit ... blocks left the car via the hatch window. I was spun 500 some degrees. I turned the foul-smelling beast onto a side street. I was dazed, but unharmed. Pinto ... cough, hack ... sputter, gasp [engine now off]
I walked over to the car that was on the incline to a hill -- entrance to plaza. From the look of the car -- position first, I'm sure he was just plain stupid. He wanted to get my info, but was disinclined to share his. The cop found mutual fault -- the other driver was pissed.
Nothing says Merry Christmas like a destroyed car. It was patched, but never really repaired. It was dead. My next car was better, but its death is another story
and starts talking nicely. I foolishly either willingly get in the conversation or am welcomed into it. The man is complaining about his depression. He is an accomplished alcoholic, being one for decades. His claims of drinking are -- well, claims. His other woes are, I'm sure real, but blurred by years and by alcohol. I stupidly offered him some advice: consider why you are alive if: you did indeed tried and failed to kill yourself, and have suffered the many loses in your life. This was about as useful as, "The wall over there is off-white, ya know?"
A man who drinks like that and does not eat, is going to die! When? It was a good time to get out of Dodge.
My lesson here is, if a person walks up to you with an alcoholic drink in his / her hand and says, "I'm an alcoholic!", just pretend your Serbian and English isn't your strong suit.
So many years ago -- 11 years, I think, I was interested in a woman, Susan, and when I asked to go out with her she gave the put off line of, "Wouldn't it be better to just be friends?"
A dog's whine when closed in the house, as the rest of the family goes on a picnic, is close to the sound I made saying the word, "no" (stretched out for 8 seconds).
MR and TS were passengers in my lovely (sarcasm) old Pinto. It was 2 something in that Friday morning. What to do ... what to do? We spot a Yosemite Sam on the curb. There was no wonder, as he was filthy, like a machanic's rag. I grabbed (pinched) him and we were off. We were on a gravel road. I tethered Sam to my back bumper. I couldn't see him, but MR could. MR had the misfortune of being the back seat.
I clearly demonstrated competent driving, going maybe 60 down a gravel road. We approached a curve that it was clear we weren't going to make, despite my slamming on the breaks (sliding nicely on the gravel). We were entering the curve, when we saw a worse fate than ditching in a field ... a telephone pole was heading toward us.
I gritted my teeth awaiting doom. MR, moments before had wisely put on his safety belt. I think, at this time, TS was trying to buckle up. We upruptly stopped. I saw no crumpled front ... no shattered windshield, but the horizontal hold was off. Through luck, God, or fate ... we rested on the guide wire that cut into the car like a cheese cutter, along the back wheel well.
I opened the door to have it mimic a kickstand. I tumbled out, as did TS. MR had to struggle to get from the back. Boy, was I stupid! We walked back from the car, and I thought it might be best to free the Sam that was on the back bumper. His ride wasn't as scary as ours.
At this time -- you would expect foul language or silence. I offered neither, but murmurred, "Curse my feeble driving skills!" It was a phrase that was stupid, but memorable.
I walked down to call the folks. They were ... not too shocked to hear me. We were all okay, and he was going to see us soon -- 4:15 /5 which seemed like 7. TS and MR were going to just walk back to either of their houses -- leaving me to catch it all.
Speaking of catch --- my father had a plan. Cut the guide wire and TS, MR and I would catch the car.
We were not so inclined, unlike the car. The snapping of the guide wire was the main concern. Darwin awards wasn't known then, but we weren't interested in dying that way. The car fell 4 feet -- unhappily. Unlike Herbie, this hunk didn't reassemble itself.
