Blow it out your exhaust pipe.


What a person generally wants out of a car is for it simply to get them from point A to point B.

Now that statement is a steaming pile of gooey festering elephant feces. In general, a person couldn't care less if their car got them about a half a block from point A and broke down, leaving them thousands if not millions of miles, if not lightyears away from point B, so long as it made everyone that person knew go "Wow you drive a saab? How much money did you say you make again, and when is the next soonest possible date on which you can have intercourse with me?"

That's what people want from a car, because people, simply put, are complete mongoloid retards. Well maybe not simply, but accurately.

So by "people" in the above paragraph, obviously I'm talking about me. I am a complete mongoloid retard. But I will say that although I'm learning life's lessons the extremely rectal-exam-like hard way, I am, in fact, learning them. So that's something, I guess.

Anyway, the lesson here is that the right decision is often masked by the flashy, exciting, enviable exterior of the wrong decision, and also, that the flashy, exciting exerior often, if not always, masks the broken, malfunctioning ugly shithole underbelly of the wrong decision. The fact of the matter is, though, that I personally, and many others like me, will continue to see the flashy exciting exterior until the retched, disfigured underbelly becomes so intensely obvious that no one can continue to ignore it. And its at that point that I give up and say, "man, was I wrong as hell."

Well that's the case here folks, and, in what is quickly becoming intensely obvious, in one other particular case as well. But that case is outside of this topic.

So the question then becomes, what the hell am I gonna do now? The choices, in this case, are simple. I can continue beating my head against a nail spiked wall until the grey matter of my brain is mashed into a fine pulp leaving me with the mental capacity of my now defunct exhaust system, or.....I can get a new car.

See what gets me is that the problem isn't so much me, even though I treat my car about as well as George Bush treats the first amendment. Its all about idiot mechanics. Mechanics that are supposed to know that the ignition switch is broken and the starter is firing and to not continue running the car so long as it's making a sound like cats being made to listen to Michael Bolton.

Its mechanics breaking my shit and then charging me for it. That's my problem. Because they're like dictators really. You have to do what they say.

Me: So the starter worked when I brought it in, and now the you've "fixed" it, it doesn't work?
Mechanic: Yup that about sums it up.
Me: Ok, and so why am I responsible for that?
Mechanic: Well its your car.
Me: But didn't you break the starter.
Mechanic: No, you did.
Me: But you've had the car for three days.
Mechanic: But you did the work on it.
Me: But I've been out of town for three days.
Mechanic: No you haven't.
Me: Yes I have, I wasn't in this state.
Mechanic: Yes you were.
Me: Ok so how much do I owe you now
Mechanic: How much do you have?


See how it goes? You just have to take their word for it. The guy could lift up the car and show me anything and I'd be like 'Oh yeah, man that is bad. Glad you only charged me six thousand for that.'

So the moral here, kids: Mechanics have a power in this world that you and I will never experience. So go out and slash their tires. Fuckers.