Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Science Is Fun(ny)!!

You know those moments when someone opens your eyes to the most random, crazy shit that some people do on a daily basis? Well, since I don't pay a whole lot of attention to other people  tend to mind my own business, this rarely happens to me. Today it did. And not in your normal, "Wow! That's fucked up!" kind of way. OK, I'll admit, at first I was wondering why in the fuck someone would just admit something like that to me, but then I had time to truly absorb the impact of how this new bit of knowledge could impact my life.

What I'm talking about is some (he described it as Voodoo) tradition of holding something against your chest, paying attention to how your body moves-leaning forward or backward (Yes, my mind immediately went to the fucking gutter with that visual, too.)-to decide whether or not to continue. Forward= good for you. Backward=don't do that shit!

While I originally thought this idea was bat shit crazy, I couldn't get it out of my mind because he insisted it actually worked! I mean, really?!?! I'm always looking for ways to make my decisions in the laziest most efficient way possible. The more I thought about it, the more brilliant it actually sounded. So I did what any semi-sane, bad-decision-making person would do. I Googled the shit out of it! Voodoo-nothing. Superstitions-nope. Old wives tales (because the person practicing this was, in fact, an old wife)-zilch. Witchcraft, Scientology, Alien DNA?-not a fucking thing. I'm now convinced that Google doesn't know me at all.

At this point, I was out of search ideas and just assumed that this parlor trick was either a hoax or special Top Secret info only available to those people at Area 51 who get to run creepy  experiments on the little, bug-eyed, green freaks. I knew that there is no way I'll ever gain Top Secret clearance (curse my addiction to the internet and putting my whole  twisted life online!), so I would have to test it myself just to see if someone was playing a cruel joke on me. In all honesty, I was already drunk sleepy and had to find out if this shit could come in handy. Or, at the very least, creep the hell out of all my friends. Because, let's face it. That's. Just. Fucking. Fun.

EXPERIMENT 1: Grab the first thing I see. Ooooh! Look, a beer!! That'll work just fine, thank you. I held it to my chest. Leaned forward. Good. To. Fucking. Go!!! So far, I'm liking this idea!

EXPERIMENT 2: The baby is, yet again, begging for me to pick her up for no apparent reason. How convenient! I pick her up, and I lean backward. This is not looking good. Either the universe is trying to tell me that my kiddos are bad for me, or this whole thing is bullshit. Speaking of shit...guess which little human decided to fill her diaper at that exact moment? Maybe there's some truth to this, after all. I'll consider that a win.

Now I'm 2 for 2. I'm not a scientist, but my odds are looking pretty damn good at this point. Who knows, maybe I'll win the next Nobel Prize for my random attempt to amuse myself dedication?

EXPERIMENT 3: I picked up the laundry basket full of dirty clothes. I held it against my chest. Go figure. I fell backward. Granted, it could have been because of the multiple beers I'd already had or the fact that my back chose that exact moment to freeze up, but if it gets me out of doing laundry on the off chance that I could die in some freak washing machine explosion, I'm still going to count it.

EXPERIMENT 4: Another beer. This one is, clearly, going to be the deciding factor as to whether or not this concept could change my life forever. I held that beer close to my chest. Concentrated as well as I could. That's when I fell the fuck over sideways. 

I'll assume that means that I'm better off using my Magic fucking 8-ball, and I should "try again later".

What "quirky" superstitions do you firmly believe in?

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

My Car Is Trying to Kill Me

FACT: My soccer mom minivan car is possessed.

If you ever get to read my obituary, I'm 100% certain that it will include details about how my evil ass car was the ultimate culprit of my demise.

 I'm not exaggerating. It hates me. With a fucking passion. And will settle for no less than making sure that I suffer it's evil wrath for countless amounts of lollipops, candy bars, and juice boxes permanently cemented to her interior.

I have proof. Not just any proof. I'm talking about all out, if I could legally sue an inanimate object in court for attempts on my life, I. Fucking.Would. Proof.

Case in point. (oooh, look, now I get to go all Tom Cruise in "A Few Good Men"!) It. Tried. To. Set. Me. On. FIRE!

Yes,my car, did, in fact, attempt to burn my ass alive a few weeks ago. Not in any sort of, "I'll give you a fucking warning" kind of way, either.

 I knew that the brake pads I bought 2 months ago suddenly failed.  I knew that the "check engine" light that, coincidentally enough, NEVER registered a code when I had it checked. How.Fucking.Ever. I NEVER expected to have a meeting with the chief of police, drive 1/2 mile down the road, and find out that my car was, in fact, Stephen King's CHRISTINE!

I left work. It's a simple 4 mile drive home. Sure I smelled smoke, but I assumed that was because I'd shoved so many cigarette butts into the empty Coke can that they didn't burn out.

 I pulled up to a stop sign, and all Hell broke loose. And by that, I, of course mean, that Satan Van unleashed her evil fury on me. The wipers went crazy. The lights started flashing on and off like a hooker who wasn't sure if she'd actually be paid. The stereo started sounding like I was playing a Beatles' album fucking backwards just to hear the satanic messages.

3 1/2 miles. That's all I needed to make it. So I continued. Famous last words, I know. That's when it happened. The evil bitch that she is. The car. Caught. On. Fucking. Fire. Yep. You read that right. Smoke started billowing out of the vents. Flames (albeit mini) were visible. And I started to panic.

Roll down the windows? Nope. Not working. So I did what any normal person would do. I pulled over and tried to run for my fucking life. I'll consider it a learning experience that, when your door locks keep popping up and down, you will NOT be able to actually open your fucking door when you need to escape! (Come to find out, it's a timing issue, but, seriously, when you're in the situation, you have no time to deal with those semantics!)

So I called 911.(Fuck. If I'm going to go down in a blaze of glory, I, at the very least, want there to be a record of it!) I couldn't escape. While my van was filling up with smoke, I. Could. Not. Get. Out!

Flash forward 5 minutes...

The fire department and police all showed up.(Yes, I know the perks of working with them.)

I managed to figure out the auto-lock timing and escape unharmed. The van, of course, has managed to kill all fucking evidence of it's attempt to kill me, and I am left wondering how the FUCK I am going to explain this all to my nonexistent insurance company!!! (SIDENOTE: This happened during a 3 day insurance lapse)

So I did what any normal, "has no fucking money to fix their car" person would do. I decided to fix it myself. Yep. That's right. Myself, a quick Google search an ordered part, and a screwdriver.

Two weeks later, I'm back on the road! Granted, I had parts left over and my car now shows an extra 40 fucking thousand extra miles on it, but shit happens.