Archive for the 'POS Tercel' Category

Gas (with only one fart joke)

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on May 12, 2008 @ 9:58 am
in POS Tercel, bitches, driving, potty humor and sex
. 3 Comments

My shitty, shitty car (which is still for sale by the way! It gets great mileage!) tends to fog up like I’m driving around with a back seat full of half-naked teenagers drunk on grain-alcohol and energy drinks whenever it rains, so it’s essential to run the AC to clear up the windows. But my car is the model of Japanese efficiency, so engine power is sacrificed in favor of the AC running. 94 horsepower drops to what feels to be about 60 horsepower, and the normally very economical fuel consumption of about 30+ miles per gallon feels like it drops to about 25 or so. Point being, whenever I want to run the AC, I instinctively check the gas gauge to see if the luxury of conditioned air is something I can afford.

This morning, with the needle on the fuel gauge looking like it was fellating the lowest line in the letter “E”, I realized that AC was a luxury I couldn’t afford, but needed desperately. So I pulled into the first gas station I saw on my way to work and parked next to the first empty pump.

I popped my credit card in the card reader, removed it, and waited. I checked the display and it said, “Please remove credit card”. That was odd as the credit card had been removed. It was in my hand. So I swiped the card again, and again I got the same problem. I mashed a bunch of buttons until the request was canceled and then got back into my car and drove to another pump.

The next pump I pulled up to was broken, as was the next one after that. Finally I just got in line behind someone who was already pumping gas, figuring that if they would be able to use the pump, so would I. I waited and waited. And waited and waited and waited. And waited. And then I waited some more. Then I finally realized that there was no one in the fucking car in front of me. The douchewhistler had apparently started pumping gas and then wandered into the mini-mart to acquire packaged pork snacks to help sustain a day-long siege against the olfactory systems of their coworkers.

So I pulled up to another pump, went through the whole fucking tap dance again with the fucking machine, and left, having spent half an hour accomplishing exactly nothing.

I pulled up at the next gas station a little further down the road, and because gas was 2 cents more expensive there than at the previous place, the station was completely empty. The card reader worked like a fucking charm, and within a few minutes I was back on the road, defogging the ever-loving crap out of my windshield.

Shaking out the cobwebs

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on March 24, 2008 @ 9:17 am
in Mrs. ACW, POS Tercel, meta blogging, money, school, suhmuhmuh bitch and the worldwide information super-tubeterwebs
. 13 Comments

Things are busy around here, so I don’t really have a lot of “teh funny” that you’ve come to expect from other websites, or “teh mediocrity” that you’ve come to expect from mine. I should really look into what it means when my goal is mediocrity and I am still constantly under-performing. Eh, maybe some other time.

Anyway, the three big things holding me up right now are:

1) Schoolwork. I’ve added a thesis-level paper to my workload for the the semester, because I have to complete it before I graduate, and the work I already had for this semester was pretty light so I figured, “What the heck?” The heck is, school work now owns my free time.

2) Sherlock has some sort of urinary tract infection or constipation or something. He’s in and out of the litterbox all the time. Mrs. ACW is taking him to the vet today to see if we can’t uncork the bits that ironically make him so irritating in the first place.

3) My car. I’m buying my grandfather’s car so I need to sell my old car to cover some of the cost. I haven’t been able to find anyone within my extended family that seems to need a car, so I’m turning to you, the unwashed masses of the internet. Run, don’t walk, to the nearest ATM, checkbook, or money order location and try for a chance at owning a prime piece of ACW memorabilia! Seriously though, if you know someone who has a teen that needs an extremely dependable but not-at-all flashy starter car, or if someone needs an around-town car that gets great mileage, please email me and let me know and I can give you the specifics. I’d apologize for essentially putting an ad for a used car on my blog, but it’s my blog, and if you don’t like it, you can eat a bag of dicks. Also, please buy my car.

This is where the title goes

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on January 24, 2008 @ 9:45 am
in Mrs. ACW, POS Tercel, bitches, movies, people are idiots, potty humor, suhmuhmuh bitch, the worldwide information super-tubeterwebs and work
. 12 Comments

So, man, have I been a terrible blog owner lately. First there’s nothing to write about, then I go away for a week and a half, then I come back and again have shit all to write about. I can’t say exactly where I went, or what I did, but I did learn some new magic tricks and mind-reading games, as well as a few new drinking games. Because it’s always handy to trick someone into buying you a drink, and then playing a game that gets you so drunk you’re soiling your diapers less than an hour later. What? You don’t wear diapers? Oh. Well, neither do I. Moving on.

A buddy of mine has entered a short story in the Amazon.com short story competition. Because I’m a lazy bastard, I will use nearly the exact text he used when he told me to read it and write a nice review. “I’ve been selected as a semifinalist in Amazon.com novel competition, and I’m looking to shore up support for my book by getting anyone and everyone in the world to write reviews and post ratings for my book. In order to do this, obviously, I have to tell you where it is. It’s here.” So wander over and take a look at what’s he’s got going on, and be sure to give it a good review. Also, feel free to buy me something off my wishlist while you’re over there. Because I’m awesome.

Let’s see… what else is going on. I have a pretty big announcement for next week, so feel free to stop by on Monday to see what that’s all about. I’m not trying to be some hit-whoring blog-tease, it’s just that I haven’t written the post for the announcement yet. I can’t post something I haven’t written yet, jerks. Calm the crap down. Don’t get your panties in a bunch, the internet will go on.

Speaking of the internet, I haven’t yet had a chance to reacquaint myself with it since I’ve been gone outside of occasional dalliances into the ether in response to an email query. I’m completely and utterly behind news-wise. I have no idea what’s been going on in the primaries, or with the economy, or anything. The only news item I’ve heard recently was that Heath Ledger died, which sucks, because he always seemed to be one of those Hollywood types who wasn’t constantly stuffing his nose full of coke, shaving his head, and flashing his junk at the media. I think we’ve lost someone who could have been a fantastic lifetime actor, and that sucks. Proving there is no god, Richard Gere continues to live. Also, I have a flat tire. Woo hoo to spending money on shit I wasn’t anticipating!

The Missus and I were supposed to get tattoos for Holiday presents (the war on Xmas doesn’t end with the season, now does it?) for each other, and I’m struggling with ideas. I sort of had all my tattoo ideas laid out in my head, and when the guy at the shop advised me on why he thought one of my tattoo placement ideas wasn’t a good idea, it kind of sent my whole tattoo plan into flux. At the same time, I’ve been brimming with new ideas that I can’t get because I have a personal rule about waiting one year before getting an idea tattooed on myself. Also, please don’t suggest any ideas, because I don’t get stuff done that isn’t my own idea, and you might ruin a potential future idea I have. There’s nothing worse than seeing or hearing about a tattoo that I had only begun to formulate mentally.

I think aside from that stuff I don’t really have much going on right now, but you know I’ll let you know as soon as I see something bizarre/stupid/weird/funny. In the meantime, I will continue to sort through the ninety-hojillion emails I have left, and keep meeting with people. (This is, I think, my newest pet peeve. Almost worse than those that continually email me after having gotten my vacation message are people who schedule meetings back to back the day I get back to work. Don’t they realize I have better things to do then listen to them drone on about the decisions they reached in meeting when I wasn’t there?)

My POS Tercel

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on January 4, 2008 @ 10:02 am
in POS Tercel and movies
. 20 Comments

As you may know, my car is a complete and extraordinary piece of crap. It’s much more interesting to list the features that it doesn’t have than what it does have, so I’ll just do that for you here:

Power windows
Power mirrors (in fact, the mirrors that came standard weren’t adjustable from the inside of the car, and you instead had to roll down the window and adjust the mirror itself. This was great fun in the winter.)
Cruise control
Power seats
Variable intermittent windshield wiper speeds (I have two speeds: “on” and “on fast”)
Low Fuel warning light (if it actually exists, it’s never come on)
Interior gas tank release
Interior trunk release
Tachometer
Tripometer (resettable odometer for trips and such)
Floor mats
Clock
CD or Cassette player (The car was sold to me with a radio. Just a radio. It had been Frankensteined into the dashboard. A CD player was the first thing I installed.)
Speakers (Yes, the car came with a radio, and no speakers. We had to cut upholstery out of the doors to install the front speakers, and when we moved to the trunk to install the rear speakers we found solid metal where a speaker-mount should have been. So I have no rear speakers.)

All of this, of course, goes without saying that I don’t have a sunroof, alloy wheels, leather interior, or any luxury like that. A car with those features is the Shangri-La of automobiles that exists only in my imagination. I know the best I’ll ever attain is a car that has cruise control and, dare I hope, it’s own speakers.

The point of this belabored introduction is to not shock you when I explain that my speedometer doesn’t work in the winter. Well, it doesn’t completely not work, it’s just not very accurate in cold weather. For example, sometimes it stays stuck at five or ten miles per hour until I get up to about 30 or so. Or it’ll stay stuck at 30 or 40 when my speed has decreased to well below that. The most amusing is when I’ve come to a complete stop and the needle on the speedometer is only just then beginning to slowly drift from whatever speed I was previously traveling to the zero. If the traffic light is short enough, sometimes it never even reaches zero.

But all of that only happens while the car is still getting warmed up. Once the car gets warmed up a bit the sticking stops and the needle on the speedometer behaves just as it should… almost. The problem once the car is warmed up is that the speedometer starts making a horrible grinding noise between 10 and 60 miles per hour, so almost the totality of my commute. Further, when I’m cruising along at an even speed, say, 60 miles per hour, the needle will woggle up to ten miles per hour in either direction. It’s like stepping on a scale and watching the numbers bounce back and forth before they eventually settle. The thing is, though, that the needle in my car never settles. It just keeps bobbling back and forth between 50 and 70, occasionally pulling itself even on 60 and shivering there like a strand of wheat in the wind for a moment so I have some idea about the rate of speed at which I’m traveling.

I talked to my mechanic about it a while ago and he told me he’d never experienced a problem quite like that before, and he imagined that it would cost me a few hundred bucks to dig around and find out what the problem is. I told him that it works well enough the way it is, and he said he figured I’d bring it back when it would need to be replaced, which would probably be cheaper.

The good news is that if a cop pulls me over in the winter I can honestly say that I have no idea about how fast I’m going, but the bad news is that a judge would probably spank me for driving an automobile with a defective speedometer. The other good thing is that my car is like it’s own Groundhog Day; once I know how fast I’m going, I also know spring is on the way. I didn’t mean the whole day repeating thing, but that might be cool too.

Oh, and just to be clear, my car wasn’t built in the 60’s, or the 70’s, or even the 80’s. It was built in 96. It’s only 12 years old, and it runs like a dream. A dream surround by a hulking shell of dilapidated shit.

Here’s a story about staining my deck

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on October 18, 2007 @ 9:30 am
in Glen Burnie, POS Tercel, bitches, happy hour, house and people are idiots
. 15 Comments

After a flood of comments of people asking me to talk about staining my deck I had something of an epiphany: you people are losers. Really? You want to hear about the tedious and tiresome process of me staining my deck over the period of 3 weekends? Wow. What a bunch of fucking nerds. I tell you what, come out to the happy hour on November 2 and I’ll tell you all about the deck. I’ll drone on and on, ad nauseum, much like I do on this here blog except it’ll be “real life” and therefore “just as boring”.

Anyway, I suddenly have a story about the shitty starter on my shitty Tercel going to shit. (I swear, I’m like a walking thesaurus.)

Last weekend my Tercel was having some trouble getting started, so after an entire afternoon wasted trying to find a copy of a Chilton’s guide for a 96 Tercel (surprise! It doesn’t exist!) and finding a retailer that carries a replacement starter for a 96 Tercel that doesn’t cost a hojillion dollars, I decided that I’d just let the car sit in the driveway until I figured out exactly what I needed to do to fix the car quickly and painlessly. So I borrowed my parent’s old, beat-up, never-gets-driven pickup truck to use in the meantime.

I drove the truck back down to my house and parked it in one of the spots in the nearby apartment complex. Now, I must admit that I have a rather ample driveway, but I didn’t want to park the truck in it because whereas 2 cars are comfortable, 3 cars are a pain in the fucking ass. Plus I went out of my way to park the truck in a spot that’s furthest away from any of the buildings, and in a spot that almost never has a car in it, and at the end of a row of 45 other empty parking spaces that are closer to the building. The truck sat in that spot for a whole day and the closest car that parked to it was 4 spots away.

I walk outside yesterday and see my (drunken, shirtless) neighbor talking to a guy as they’re peering inside of my truck. The guy leaves and goes inside the apartment complex, and my neighbor starts wobbling back to his door.

“Hey, is there something wrong with that truck?” I call out. The neighbor wobbles over to me and goes on at length about how a) the truck doesn’t have a parking pass for the apartment complex, b) the guy he was talking to lives in the complex and though he’s nice he wouldn’t trust the guy as far as he could throw him, and he’ll probably call the rental office about having the truck towed, c) that’s why people always park in front of our house, because they’re shacking up with someone in the apartments, and d) they’ll probably tow the truck.

I explain that it’s my truck and he says b, a, d, c. So I say that I’ll move the truck and he says d, b, c, a. I say, “Okay, I should probably move the truck then.” He says, c, d, a, b. This went on for about 15 minutes, and this is why I don’t exactly relish speaking with my neighbor. The repetitive feedback loop of information really wears on my already tenuous grip of sanity.

I was finally able to get my truck moved and figured the whole thing was over until about 30 minutes later when a tow truck came rumbling down our street. He did a lap of the apartment complex and not finding a red truck moved on… until he spied it in my driveway.

I could see from the window that his tiny squirrel-powered brain was churning away, trying to come up with a suitable reason for trespassing in order to tow the truck, and after the smoke poured out of his ears I guess he decided to move on. Or maybe his brain told him, “Need eat. Then poopy.”

But at least I learned something from the apartment-douchebag: territorial suburban pissing contests aren’t just for homeowners anymore.

It’s this or hearing about staining my deck.

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on October 16, 2007 @ 10:19 am
in POS Tercel, meta blogging and nerd stuff
. 19 Comments

Alright children, gather round because Uncle ACW is going to tell you a story. But don’t gather too close because the mean old judge said I had to stay at least 10 feet away from all minors after the “pudding catapult” incident. There you go. Now settle down, and listen up.

A long long time ago a magical wizard lived in some sort of house or something somewhere. Let’s say a split-level two-bedroom in the suburbs. Whatever. Anyway, this wizard invents a magical device for people to share information about what they find interesting, and he decides to call it a blog for some reason. Maybe he was an idiot. I don’t know. Shut up. Initially blogs weren’t very popular, because the Crazy Cat Ladies of Eastern Bonkersville dominated the blogs. Slowly but surely other people added their own blogs, and they became a rich tapestry of varied interests. Anyone could learn more about seemingly random strangers from all over the world, and suddenly, everyone had a blog.

Slowly things started to go bad, but it was almost imperceptible. Blogationistratas, as the blogsite owners were known, felt pressure from readers and other blogationistratas to update their blogs with new posts as frequently as possible, so the blogs eventually reverted back to the content of the Crazy Cat Ladies, or worse! Some blogationistratas resorted to hackneyed writing devices like storytelling because the only thing they had going on in their lives was staining their deck and replacing a failing starter on their 1996 POS Tercel, and they couldn’t find a way to make a funny or interesting story out of that.

Eventually all blogs became monuments to tedium and monotony as blogationistratas became too lazy to even create nonsensical non-posts as a way to explain the lack of new content. The days and years that followed that period were marked by posts that described in infinitesimal detail mundane acts like walking, chewing, and brushing teeth.

Eventually the spell was broken, because I guess a bad spell was cast at some point or something, and interesting content flowed forth once more, because maybe the witch or wizard or troll or whatever that cast the spell was killed and that’s what broke the spell. I don’t even care. But anyway the point is everybody agreed that the boring stuff was at least as good as, if not only slightly worse than, reading nothing.

Or maybe he’s just a moron

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on October 4, 2007 @ 9:35 am
in POS Tercel, bitches and people are idiots
. 15 Comments

The other day I was driving home from work, and I happened upon an accident at the intersection detailed below.

map plain

I had already waited through one cycle of the light and could tell that something was going on in the intersection in front of me. Once all the cars that were able to do so made it through the light and across the intersection, I saw that two cars had collided directly across the intersection from me. Once again, this has been detailed below for your convenience.

accident

As I was waiting at the light, with no cars obstructing my view of the accident, a police car sped past me on the right and approached the scene, parked his car and lazily exited the vehicle and approached the scene. Seeing as how the the intersection was already jacked up from the accident, where do you think the cop parked?

Continue reading ‘Or maybe he’s just a moron’

It ends. Now.

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on April 27, 2007 @ 11:10 am
in POS Tercel and uncategorized
. 11 Comments

Glitzy:
“What tips / advice do you have for the folken who are considering going to grad school and working full time?”

Kiss you social life goodbye and make sure you have a strong support network. Seriously. To do ANYTHING you’ll need to plan it well in advance so you have time to work around your homework. On top of that you’ll need friends and family that will understand your inability to do anything anymore, but who will be ready to give you some beers and make you dinner when you flunk an exam.

Diamond Lil:
“Where have all the flowers gone?”

I didn’t realize they were missing.

Jenna:
“Why is it impossible to eat while watching porn?”

I’ve never really had any problem, but then again, I don’t really watch tons of porn. I imagine that if you’re the type that goes on a 7-day, 24-hour porn binge, your brain is probably too warped to be able to do anything but allow you to drool on yourself. Besides, the starlets don’t see to have any trouble eating while making porn. (Possibly nsfw link)

lovemonkey:
“‘wicked retarted.’ Do I know where you’re from????”

You’re probably thinking Boston, but I’m not. I was born and raised just outside of Baltimore, and now I live in Glen Burnie. “Wicked Retarded” is just one of those regional sayings that I’ve added to my lexicon over the years. Like “cheers” from the UK, “yins” from northwest PA, and “guh” from West Virginia.

Sassy Blondie:
“If a bear farts in the woods, will the butterflies hear it?”

No. Butterflies don’t have ears. However, if they are within the danger zone, they’d incinerate before they heard it anyway.

Desk Job:
“My car was almost stolen at the Metro station yesterday, should I stop working in DC (in favor of another location) or suck it up and deal? Basically you can get in my car now with a screw driver. Do I have yet another reason to hate Metro and DC?”

See, your problem is the type of car that you drive. Rather than owning and driving a POS Tercel with 130,000 miles on it, you own a car that people would actually want to get their hands on. I could park my car in the middle of an abandoned parking lot with a giant neon arrow pointing to it and the keys in the ignition with the windows down and the doors open and still no one would steal it.

a.g.:
“Will M.Snay ever get laid?”

Of course he will. He’s friendly, jovial, caring, funny, giving, and nice almost to a fault. He just needs to find that right type of woman with gams from here to heaven and the right amount of perkiness, if you get my drift. It would also help if she liked Legos, Harry Potter, Battlestar Galactica, Star Trek, Star Wars, zombies, and Highlander. Speaking of, if you’re (yes you, out there on the internet) that type of lady, I’m sure Snay wouldn’t mind you reading his blog.

Alan:
“Friday Bonus Questions:

1. What secret would you never tell your blushing bride? You should probably ROT13 encode your answer since she reads your buh-log.

2. Are you smarter than a 5th Grader?

3. Given the following question:

“Assume Moe paid an arithemtic average of $250 for four
ladies of the evening. One of the women cost more than
all of the others. How much did he pay for the most expensive
woman?”

Is statement 1 alone, statement 2 alone or both statement 1
and 2 necessary to answer the question?

Statement 1: Moe paid the most expensive hooker $100 more
than the least expensive hooker.

Statement 2: Moe paid an arithmetic average of $900 for three
of the ladies.

Please justify your answer in a well thought out argument
containing no vulgar slang for coitus.

4. As Lori suggests, can a question have more than one answer? Can it have more than one _simple_ answer?

5. Who or what the fuck is the Green Marinèe?

6. If you and your blushing bride ever create offspring and the personality of said offspring takes more after your blushing bride, how will you explain this blog to them when they eventually find it on “Googles Buh-logs of Antiquity (Beta)”?

7. Why is it that when I’m really late for an appointment at work or to pick up my mal-adjusted offspring from Day-Torture, the drivers that annoy me by either blocking lanes while driving slower than traffic in their lane, or doing idiotic maneuvers while yapping on cell phones always seem to be driving one of three cars. It’s either an old-ass Jetta, a BMW Z4 (Yuppie putz) or a Celica (pain in the ass stoner). What’s up with that?

And the 25 point bonus question:

Discounting Making Whoopie and any chemically (including ETOH) altered states, when was the last time your were enthusiasticaly, eurphorically happy and what were you doing?”

Jiminy fucking Cricket, dude. What the fuck is wrong with you? We’re looking at what, 15 questions now? Seriously. Seriously. What the fuck?

1) I have no secrets from my wife. I mean, I don’t tell her every little damn stupid thing that happens to me throughout the day, but I don’t really hold anything back either. Though I’m pretty sure she doesn’t know about the meth lab.

2) Yes. I’m also smarter than most people with a bachelor’s degree, and many CEOs.

3) Who the fuck cares? He still paid a grand to fuck 4 chicks, but it doesn’t even matter how much it cost because the chlamydia will be the same in the morning.

4) Yes, all questions have more than one answer. All but one might be wrong, but they’re still answers and they can be as simple as “yes” or “no”.

5) I believe it’s the design template upon which my blog layout has been created.

6) “I was young and I needed the no money.”

7) People are fucking stupid. There’s a simple answer.

Bonus) Wow. 18 or whatever questions from you and we FINALLY get to a great one. The last time I was enthusiatically, euphorically happy was when I was watching my favorite scene from the Simpsons and cooking dinner with my wife, all the windows open in the house as the first warm air of spring blew through the living room.

Malnurtured Snay:
“Congrats on making bucket-loads of new money! Does this mean your old job is open? Because, um, I’m looking for something.”

Sorry dude. New title, more work, same job. If it counts for anything though I tried to get you some booty up there ^.

Gwenhwyfar:
“How can I make the crick in my neck go away?”

If you find out, PLEASE let me know because I never know how to get rid of these. I’ll tell you what not to do though. Don’t try to stretch it. That hurts like a bitch.

Poppy:
“I HAVE A QUESTION. ANOTHER QUESTION. That’s been bugging me the ENTIRE TIME I’ve read your blog. Your brother is always such a jackass to you on your blog. Is he that way to you in real life? (Sorry mokie, but YOU ARE!!)”

We’re both that way to each other. Combine that with our constant joking with each other at the expense of most racial, ethnic, and religious minorities and we’re pretty much unsuitable to be around. But that’s just on the surface. Deep down, he really cares. But not in a “gay” way. It’s more of a two-brothers-who-have-sex way.

Anger Hangover:
“Dear ACW,
I’ve always wanted to ask you if you get that, you know, not-so-fresh feeling?
Thanks in advance,
AngyHangy”

Well, to be honest, yes I do. It’s usually after a night spent down at the disco while having anonymous sex with anything with legs. Which isn’t to say that I ignore the amputees, they get to ride too. It’s typically at that point that I stumble down the street to find a dealer who will accept perverse sexual favors in lieu of payment, and usually they want to jam something into my ass-crevice. And let me tell ya, on the way in it’s not so bad, but on the way out it’s exquisite. Before I know it I wake up behind a Denny’s with 3 days of stubble, tied up with a fire hose, and a tattoo that says “Tight as a Virgin”… on my ear.

Oh, wait. You were talking about douching. No, I don’t douche.

S. Reed:
“‘I think it’s because I’ll brashly and obviously insult you. You penis-holster.’
Meh. I guess that’ll do.”

Were you upset by my effort to undermine your plan to be roundly and thoroughly insulted by the likes of ME? You were lucky to get “penis-holster” you Lost-loving, American Idol-watching mush-melon. Had I the time to fully examine the extent of your foibles, of which there are so many that they are nearly countless, I still wouldn’t be able to include everything. How could I possibly include your infantile support of what passes as professional sports teams in Boston while simultaneously insulting your oozing man-love of hideous bands like Boston, Journey, Styx, and Asia? Why don’t you just admit that you wish Tom Brady would take practice throws at your gaping manhole while Neil Peart uses your gaping slack-jawed mouth for a drumstick holder?

Is that more like what you were looking for?

This shit was exhausting.

I was specifically thinking of Lucky Charms

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on March 9, 2007 @ 10:31 am
in POS Tercel, bitches, driving, potty humor and work
. 10 Comments

This morning I was driving to work and found myself behind a slow moving vehicle. Having recently changed my philosophy about driving I didn’t aggressively cut around the van in front of me, slow down and block its path forcing it to stop, drag the owner from the driver’s seat and beat him to death with a tire iron on the side of the road before collecting his head, setting his van ablaze and pushing it over an embankment before skewering his decapitated visage (his face still locked in the slack-jawed and glassy eyed countenance which typified his slothful and slovenly existence) onto the front of my Tercel, creating a hood ornament fit for a KISS Army brunch. Instead I simply checked my mirrors, noticed that there was only one car in the distance, and merged to pass the van.

Seconds later my car’s tailpipe was being sodomized by the front end of the car I had seen in the distance. I could now tell from the custom stitching in the headrest of the upholstery of the car behind me that I was being tailgated by a douchebag in a Dodge Avenger. I estimated that there was about 6 inches between my bumper and the douchebag’s. Good thing we were going 65.

The old me would have slammed on the brakes after unbuckling my seatbelt, launching myself backward at the moment of impact, blasting through rear window, and then his windshield, a furious flurry or fists and teeth, only finding satisfaction upon eating through his ribcage and devouring his still-beating heart just before he slipped into shock. The new me instead got back over into the right lane in front of the van as soon as it was safe to do so. The douchebag didn’t let up for a moment, and passed me slowly so he could stare me down.

His car was clean, his windows were tinted, and for some idiotic reasons he was driving on what looked like z-rated tires… three of them. His right rear tire was not z rated, nor s rated, nor even h rated. It was a donut. And oh how I laughed.

For those of you who don’t live in areas as congested as the Baltimore-Washington corridor, I should explain that the morning commute can very quickly become an absurd dick-measuring contest with every manner of mongoloid trying to flex nuts. It amounts to nothing more than aggressive driving, speeding, cutting people off, and generally being a huge cock of a human. For me, it had just become surreal. This guy rolled up to a metaphorical dick measuring contest, talking a bunch of shit and acting so douchey that he could out-douche an automatic doucheing machine on the douchingest day of its life. But when he whips it out, nobody notices the dong, and everyone instead stares at the clear plastic bag of marshmallow cereal where his testicles should be.

My Tercel may be a piece of shit, but at least it’s got four tires.

This is the 1000th post

Published
by
Anonymous Coworker
on January 22, 2007 @ 9:40 am
in Mrs. ACW, POS Tercel, bitches, driving, suhmuhmuh bitch and travel
. 31 Comments

Yesterday Mrs. ACW and I were visiting with her family up in Hanover. Okay, I’ll be honest. It was her family’s Christmas party. Everyone in Mrs. ACW’s family is very nice, and very friendly, but they’re all a little slow. Not short-bus, helmet-wearing slow, but like actually slow. They move at a lower rate of speed than other people. Each year the Christmas party gets later and later. I hear the forthcoming Summer Christmas parties are the best, and that we’ll eventually have the party fall around Christmas in about 10 years, and that should last for about two or three years, but in the meantime, we just have to deal with this comic-book-esque quirk and have the party when the family is ready to have the party. Also, they think it’s 1974.

So, when it started snowing up in Hanover, the family started to skedaddle. They all live varying degrees of south of Hanover and wanted to get on the road ASAP. I figured we could wait for all the other jerks to get into accidents and THEN we could go home, so we stayed about an hour later than everyone else. Once we finally left the roads weren’t too bad, and I was sure that we could get home in about the same amount of time that it took us to get up there.

Unfortunately, some dipshit turdfucking cockbag in a Mercedes was trying to give me an aneurysm. See, Hanover, and northern Maryland in general, isn’t a place that anyone wants to go to for any reason, so all the roads are only two lanes until you get to Westminster, and that’s about 20 miles away.

The first few miles were fine, but there was a large hill that I had coasted down with a “Wee!” on the way to Mrs. ACW’s aunt’s house, and I wasn’t looking forward to going back up that hill in the snow. When we crested the small ridge on the opposite side of that hill I immediately noticed three things. The first was a minivan turning around at the intersection at the lowest point between the small hill I was on, and the large hill in front of me. The second thing I noticed was a car stopped at the top of the large hill. The third thing I noticed was thick black marks behind the car at the top of the hill showing where they had lost their momentum and spun their tires to make it the rest of the way up the hill.

Because the car at the top of the hill wasn’t moving, I knew I would have to wait, because if I stopped behind them on the slope, I would slide back down to the bottom of the hill. So I waited. And I waited. And I waited. And the stupid fucking car at the top of the fucking hill never moved.

Finally, after about five minutes, the brake lights on the car went out and the car at the top of the hill almost imperceptibly started moving forward. Traffic had been piling up behind me, but they could see that I had no options because Shitfuck Cockbag wasn’t going anywhere. I started the car rolling down the hill, slowly but steadily picking up speed until I thought I had just enough to make it to the top of the hill without going so fast that I would hit the scumfucker in what I could now tell was a Mercedes. Just as I was about to pass the minivan, who had been sitting motionless at the intersection at the bottom of the hill, the stupid bitch decided to dart in front of me. I hit my brakes, she realized she was a big retarded piece of shit, and an accident was avoided, but I had lost all my momentum.

I glared, gunned it, and made it 3/4 the way up the hill before my wheels started to spin. As we slowly climbed the hill, I noticed the Mercedes had stopped again. I couldn’t stop because I would slide backwards down the hill, and I saw in my rearview that the car behind me was starting to make it’s attempt down the smaller hill. I figured that I could pass the dumbshit fartlicker in the Mercedes once I crested the hill and could see if there was any oncoming traffic.

Finally, the Mercedes started to move, but my problems were far from over. For the next 15 to 20 miles the Mercedes driver engaged in what can only be referred to as the skullfuckingly stupidest shit that you can do when there’s snow on the road. Braking to almost a stop at the bottom of hills. Braking going up hills. Speeding up for no reason. Slowing down for no reason. It was impossible to follow this nut-sweat drinking pissbucket without knowing that they were going to get you into a wreck.

I backed off and gave as much space as I could, but no matter how slow I tried to go, they would go even slower. And then speed up for no reason. But then, before I knew it, I’d be going 5 miles an hour behind them with their brake lights on and slowing. It was maddening. I really wanted to get out of my car, drag them out of their Mercedes, and beat them to death on the side of the road with a tire-iron. I was infuriated.

Finally, 45 minutes later when we got to Westminster, I was able to pass the Mercedes just in time to notice them cutting off a plow. Superb.

After that the gridlock on the beltway (”Hey, it’s snowing! Who wants to get on the beltway on Sunday afternoon for no reason? Everybody? Great! Get in your cars and let’s go!”) wasn’t even surprising. It was like all the Mercedes’ driver’s friends and relatives had come out to support Shittastic Driving Day.

Mrs. ACW and I detoured around all that bullshit and were home before long. But I swear, if I ever see that Mercedes again when I’m in my Tercel, I’ll ram the fucker right off the road and take us both out in an explosive cacophony of death, screams, fire, and metal.

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