SomethingSoWrong

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cHYznAb9D9I]

So, as you may remember from last week’s Tuesday blog, my beloved RiflemanMobile 3.0 was carelessly damaged by an unknown douchebag and was, consequently, in the shop being repaired. Friday morning, I get a call that the RiflemanMobile was ready to be retrieved, so ‘Shank and I went to get it. We drove it all afternoon without problems, but late that night, after I’d dropped ‘Shank off at his house, I was on my way back to my Valley Ranch abode when a message flashed onto the RiflemanMobile’s computer display informing me that the left front headlight wasn’t working–the very same headlight that had been replaced by the body shop.

Fuck, I thought.

And also kind of cool that the Germans decided it’d be handy to actually be informed via the in-dash computer display when various lights were out.

The next morning, I wandered out to the RiflemanMobile to investigate the light. After figuring out how to remove it (no small task when the whole headlight mechanism seems to have been designed with African Pygmies in mind–the last people that’d probably drive a GTI), I discovered that the plastic around the base was melted. Fuck.

I weighed my options. Buy a new light and hope that I could get my large hands into the mechanism to mount it correctly (not really an option, because those HID lights are fucking pricey and there was no way that I was going to ever get my hand into that thing to mount it right). I could wait until Monday and take it back to the body shop and let them deal with it, but that’d leave me carless, or at least driving another shitty rental for a day or two. Or take it to VW and hope that they don’t realize that the headlight assembly had been replaced (luckily, it was original VW parts).

I settled on the third option, assuming that it’d be a simple fix for VW, such as just replacing the bulb or something.

After killing a couple of hours at the VW place, my service advisor declared that not only was the bulb damaged because it was improperly seated in the housing (of course, he assumed it’d worked its way loose and was their problem) but also that the control assembly that handles the self-leveling functionality of the light had been damaged by arcing.

I agreed with him that this was a misfortunate issue, but then he asked me a question I didn’t particularly like hearing. “How do you feel about driving a Beetle?”

“Is that all you have?” I replied.

“Yep…Just gave out our last Passat loaner.”

“Well, I guess I can drive the Beetle, as long as it’s not pink or lime green.”

I follow him to the loaner car corral to find a red Beetle and a blue Touareg.

“What about the Touareg?” I asked.

“Oh, sorry…the Touareg loaners are for Touareg owners.”

Dammit.

I signed the paperwork for the Beetle and climbed inside to head home. As soon as my ass hit the seat, I felt my genitals begin to turn inside out. It is definitely a chick car.

By the time I got home, I was pretty sure I had a full-blown vagina. It took me a while to get used to sitting to pee, but I did get to play with it a lot, even enjoying some “DJ diddles“.

So I temporarily have a vagina.

Fucking girl-cars.

I get my GTI back tomorrow, if all goes as planned…hopefully, everything pops right back out when I get into it.

This should give my fellow Lost fans some insight into the creative process…

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BRp8N5jS3R4]

Tyler. What can I say about my hometown? Not much that the local tourist bureau would be eager to quote in their newest brochure “Tyler: It’s A Bit More Fun Than Pyongyang”. I sucked it up and went over there this last weekend after getting a heaping helping of good old-fashion Catholic guilt about not visiting my family enough ladled onto my psyche by my mother. My brother and his wife had a baby a couple of months ago and, to hear my mom say it, if I don’t get over there often enough to see him while he’s still a baby, he’ll be graduating from high school in a couple of weeks. Because, you know, my prescence stifles growth. Or something like that.

I left behind the gleaming city and headed out east on I-20 early Saturday morning, sipping my Starbucks and wondering what the weekend would bring. Fortunately, I already had a good idea…every visit to Tyler means just about the same thing: 1) My mom giving me shit about being single and 2) drinking with the lovely Holly and her now-thankfully-short-haired brother Andrew (who apparently feels that “Joe” is a great nickname for someone named “Andrew”). These two people are what makes Tyler worth going to. Seriously.

Don’t get me wrong…I love my family, but our priorities are different. My brother and his wife are uber-responsible now that they have a kid, so no going out for drinks with them. And what kind of loser goes out for drinks with his mom? Not this kind of loser, that’s for certain.

So I arrived in Tyler, ready for what the weekend might bring. Having only had some nuggets to eat the night before, I was a bit on the hungry side. Apparently, so was the rest of my family. We decided to just get something small for lunch, then go out for a big dinner, so it was up to my brother and me to procure some Whataburger.

We picked the slowest Whataburger in the world. Seriously…it shouldn’t take 25 minutes to make four burgers and four orders of fries. As we waited, we watched–and this part isn’t meant to sound racist, but it probably does–a long-necked black woman bring out other people’s orders to their tables.

It was interesting.

Having, in the past, encountered a lot of black women who use peculiar pronunciation in their push to bring back Gullah as a dialect say things such as “nackins” instead of “napkins” and, most recently, “it sho’ is niced outstide”, I’ve made up a little game in my head to try to figure out how one would pronounce words in this neo-Gullah dialect. I got to play my little game at Whataburger.

As this woman brought out orders, craning her head this way and that, looking for the number tents with people’s order numbers placed on their tables, my brother and I decided that she resembled a velociraptor, as seen in Jurrasic Park. Or, as a neo-Gullah speaker might say, a “velostidtraptor”.

We finally made it home with our lunch, our highly-specialized burger orders surprisingly not fucked-up, but our french fries flaccid and un-tasty. After lunch, we busied ourselves with shopping and whatnot, followed by some good, old-fashioned TV watching. Which is painful when your mom only gets maybe forty channels and the only thing on her PVR (or Tiv-faux, as I call it) are seventeen episodes of Flip That House, which should never–I found out–be confused with the similarly-named and themed Flip This House.

Dinner time fastly approached and Mexican was decided on. Deciding on the place to eat was the big question–Tyler has more Mexican food places per capita than Mexico City, including the illiterately-named “El Mejicano” (Mexicans know that it’d be spelled “Mexicano” and still have an “h” sound in there), Mercado’s (which translates into “Market’s”–making no sense whatsoever–and is pronounced in the peculiar East Texas accent as “Mercardo’s”) and Posado’s (which is, of course, Spanish for “put’s”). Seriously, if you own a Mexican restaurant in Tyler, you’re retarded when it comes to translating things. There is also a Papacita’s, which should not to be confused with the similarly-named and themed Pappasito’s. This place is the worst of the lot, in that for years the manager was a skeevy-looking white guy that hadn’t had a change of wardrobe or hairstyle since 1979 (plaid pants, anyone?) and whose tables are festooned with ads for used car dealerships, lawyers and back pain clinics.

After dinner, I met up with the aforementioned Holly and Joe at a local Asian fusion restaurant called Julian’s. I sipped Tsingtao and conversed with Holly, Joe and Holly’s friend from NYC, Jamie. Jamie was the first person I’ve met from New York who wasn’t a douchbag about being from New York. Every single other person I’ve ever met who’s either just visiting from NYC or has moved from NYC can’t stop going on and on and on about how much better NYC is than wheever they happen to be at the present moment. Which is fucking annoying. New York City isn’t the end-all, be-all, greatest city in the world, despite what tourism campaigns, Rudolph Giuliani and every sitcom ever made would have you believe. Interestingly, this attitude isn’t unique to America…a quick, informal office poll of some of my coworkers from outside the US shows that the same attitudes are found in the UK about London, Russia about Moscow, Australia about Sydney, Philippine’s about Manila and Mumbai about India. Pretty much what this quick office study tells me is that if you’re from the biggest city in a particular country, you’re a total douchebag.

After drinks at Julian’s, we moved to Dakota’s for more imbibing before it was decided that–and I’m not sure why I agreed to this–we’d go to a party. Unfortunately, no one told me it’d be a douchebag party.

It was chock-full o’ emo kids, wannabe hipsters, people with bad, bad hair and perpetual community college student losers. Being un-pierced, un-tattoed, having well-styled hair and having never shopped at a second-hand store, I was so out of my element. Drunken fucks tried to talk to me, their slurred words sounding like Charlie Brown’s teacher and their incessant stumbling about annoying me. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, burning my eyes and searing my throat. The only saving grace was the keg of Shiner, where we stationed ourselves, drinking as much of the losers’ beer as possible.

Thankfully, then end came sooner rather than later, and I made my way home, slunk into bed and awaited the morning. Unfortunately, morning came sonner rather than later as well.

Sunday, was a lazy day…I didn’t do much with my family, and eventually escaped back to Dallas, where at last I felt safe. After some late TV-watching with ‘Shank, I fell asleep, only to have to rise again at 6 in the morning.

Why six in the morning? Am I glutton for punishment? Do I hate myself? No, not that much. I had to take my GTI–the RiflemanMobile III–into the body shop because of an incident that happened last time I was in Tyler, nearly a month ago. I was at a lame-ass nightclub with Tyler people and apparently some inconsiderate fuckhead decided it would be a good idea to run into my fender and not leave a note. Thanks for the $2200 worth of damage, cocksucker.

At any rate, this means that this week I’m rolling in the shittiest car ever…a Chevy Cobalt. The doors, I am certain, are cardboard. The seats are uncomfortable. The ride feels “squishy”. And the windows have to be hand-cranked. I didn’t even know they made hand-cranked windows any more.

Bah. Bah it all to hell.

Update – 10:18 AM

As Joe pointed out in the anonymous comment below, I apparently forgot to mention “the dude with the caved in chest at the douchebag party who was laying in the kitchen floor while some chick ate cereal off of him”. How could I forget somethiung like that? Easy. Somehow, in my alcohol-fueled state, I totally missed him. I IM’d Joe and he filled me in a bit more on this weirdness:

/>“some chick had poured cereal AND MILK onto his scrawny, never-worked-out-because-i wasn’t-good-at-sports-and-now-i-just-write-tortured music-all-the-time chest and was eating it”

What the fuck? Damn emo kids.

Of course, I also forgot to mention the guy who panicked when the tube for his insulin pump got caught in some bushes. All I could say was “that’s what you get for being diabetic”. Because, you know, I’m an asshole like that.

That first paragraph is especially hilarious in the wrong context.

We used to do this fairly often, but haven’t in well over a year. Below is a list of some of the more interesting search engine queries that led people to SomethingSoWrong:

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Today is a banner day in the somewhat troubled history of SomethingSoWrong. For the first time in memory, we’ve received a nice, non-hatemail letter from someone. Read on:

Today I was discussing my everlasting irrational fear of the Oompa Loompa Men, and as usual people looked at me like I was nuts and began to laugh. At least no one sang the song this time.

Cinnette Wilder

Well, thank you very much Cinnette. We appreciate your kind words!