Everything You Ever Wanted to Hear About Tires
Has anyone ever realized that whenever the need arises to buy a new tire, especially when the purchase is necessitated by a blowout, it always ends up being extremely hot when you go to do it? It seems that every time I've ever had to drive to a tire store to get a new wheel for my conveyance, it's been uncomfortably hot outside. And I'm not talking about the friendly outdoors summer hot. I mean the inner-city, asphalt ground and black rubber heat vapor orange, burning hot. The kind that boils off tenament apartment buildings and sticks you to leather seats. Shitty, sweaty, baking hot. And I can't help but need to buy tires in that weather.
Not that I ever need to buy tires, in fact. On the whole, I tend to not give a flying fuck about any car that I possess, but occasionally said car will crap out on me in the form of a blown or deflated tire (albeit due, in most cases, to my aforementioned negligence) and I'll need to drive around in my lame automobile in a sweltering tarmac-and-concrete jungle.
Recently I was driving down the 55 with the Mrs. and I blew out my right rear tire to the extent that it ripped off of the rim and whipped up the body of the car around that area pretty good. Needless to say, having recently purchased this car in pristine condition, and this car having replaced my last truck which (I may have written on before) was totaled through the combination of a trip to the San Diego Zoo, Labor Day, and an asshole with no other way to enjoy life than to alter his perception and then find himself behind the wheel of a large automobile. Don't drink and drive, children. Not just because it's against the law, and not just because you may hurt yourself, or that you may hurt others. Because, if you drink and drive, and I find out, I will hurt you. I will hurt you so badly. If anyone else made that threat, maybe you wouldn't have anything to worry about, but trust me on this. I have recently realized that my life is somewhat inconsequential and, for the moment, largely without meaning, and I have absolutely no problem at all in throwing every aspect of mine toward the prospect of serving out delicious vengeance on those who, in some small way, have allied themselves with someone who would passively my life and the life of someone I love dearly into their hands.
Anyway.
So my tire blew out, it sucks. I managed to get off the road and not get hit. My catalytic converter got fucked up, and that cost me a pretty penny. I got two new tires, having realized the reason it probably blew up is because the fucking tires that came with the car are so fucking old that they're falling the fuck apart, and that's not the best part of my week. Bitch bitch, bitch bitch, lots of money I don't really want to spend. More complaining, why me, parking tickets, not fair. Blee blah blow... boop bahp beep... and so on.
It's a little scary when you think that your entire car, no matter what car you have, is really only in contact with the ground that it's flying over at upwards of 65 mph (95 if you're more like me) over a total surface area of little more than two square feet. It's the only part of the car that is actually in contact with the ground which, theoretically, you're trying to shorten your involvement with in your purchasing of a machine to get you across it faster. One must invest in tires, if only to ensure one's safety. This does not change the fact that I was quoted 740 for a set of four tires, and this does not change the fact that there is no way in Beelzebub's Western Hell that I am willing to give one man that much for four objects.
At least not for four objects that I'm going to be rolling around on the ground.
...
I don't know how similar this endeavor is to something like MySpace, and maybe it's only me that thinks this, but isn't MySpace the last vestige of people who have no chance at all of getting laid? It seems like the low watermark of the social development of humanity when there's nothing left to do but set up a picture of yourself (probably the one that paints you in a light you are not likely to find again in this life, let alone in normal operating daily existence), write some painfully witty and chamringly self-depricating "about me," and wait for the hot hot heinas to send you pictures of them? Hopefully with their underwear showing?! ON THE FLOOR?!
SWEET!
I don't know. People I've made fun of...
...spoken with...
...say they just want a place where they can keep in touch with their friends, but I think that's a little goofy. Most people just want the forum in which they can monologue unfettered and have their friends (along with any other hottyz what may be watching) read how much they should have a column in the New Yorker. Or the Post. Or, more accurately, Mad.
Anyway, I get a real "dwelling place of the socially inept" feel from the place. Like the Warhammer dens or like... I don't know... my house.
Go outside. Call someone. Just don't write a blog entry about how you did it, for Christ's sake.
Self-reflexive? Charmingly self-depricating? PROBABLY!
Not that I ever need to buy tires, in fact. On the whole, I tend to not give a flying fuck about any car that I possess, but occasionally said car will crap out on me in the form of a blown or deflated tire (albeit due, in most cases, to my aforementioned negligence) and I'll need to drive around in my lame automobile in a sweltering tarmac-and-concrete jungle.
Recently I was driving down the 55 with the Mrs. and I blew out my right rear tire to the extent that it ripped off of the rim and whipped up the body of the car around that area pretty good. Needless to say, having recently purchased this car in pristine condition, and this car having replaced my last truck which (I may have written on before) was totaled through the combination of a trip to the San Diego Zoo, Labor Day, and an asshole with no other way to enjoy life than to alter his perception and then find himself behind the wheel of a large automobile. Don't drink and drive, children. Not just because it's against the law, and not just because you may hurt yourself, or that you may hurt others. Because, if you drink and drive, and I find out, I will hurt you. I will hurt you so badly. If anyone else made that threat, maybe you wouldn't have anything to worry about, but trust me on this. I have recently realized that my life is somewhat inconsequential and, for the moment, largely without meaning, and I have absolutely no problem at all in throwing every aspect of mine toward the prospect of serving out delicious vengeance on those who, in some small way, have allied themselves with someone who would passively my life and the life of someone I love dearly into their hands.
Anyway.
So my tire blew out, it sucks. I managed to get off the road and not get hit. My catalytic converter got fucked up, and that cost me a pretty penny. I got two new tires, having realized the reason it probably blew up is because the fucking tires that came with the car are so fucking old that they're falling the fuck apart, and that's not the best part of my week. Bitch bitch, bitch bitch, lots of money I don't really want to spend. More complaining, why me, parking tickets, not fair. Blee blah blow... boop bahp beep... and so on.
It's a little scary when you think that your entire car, no matter what car you have, is really only in contact with the ground that it's flying over at upwards of 65 mph (95 if you're more like me) over a total surface area of little more than two square feet. It's the only part of the car that is actually in contact with the ground which, theoretically, you're trying to shorten your involvement with in your purchasing of a machine to get you across it faster. One must invest in tires, if only to ensure one's safety. This does not change the fact that I was quoted 740 for a set of four tires, and this does not change the fact that there is no way in Beelzebub's Western Hell that I am willing to give one man that much for four objects.
At least not for four objects that I'm going to be rolling around on the ground.
...
I don't know how similar this endeavor is to something like MySpace, and maybe it's only me that thinks this, but isn't MySpace the last vestige of people who have no chance at all of getting laid? It seems like the low watermark of the social development of humanity when there's nothing left to do but set up a picture of yourself (probably the one that paints you in a light you are not likely to find again in this life, let alone in normal operating daily existence), write some painfully witty and chamringly self-depricating "about me," and wait for the hot hot heinas to send you pictures of them? Hopefully with their underwear showing?! ON THE FLOOR?!
SWEET!
I don't know. People I've made fun of...
...spoken with...
...say they just want a place where they can keep in touch with their friends, but I think that's a little goofy. Most people just want the forum in which they can monologue unfettered and have their friends (along with any other hottyz what may be watching) read how much they should have a column in the New Yorker. Or the Post. Or, more accurately, Mad.
Anyway, I get a real "dwelling place of the socially inept" feel from the place. Like the Warhammer dens or like... I don't know... my house.
Go outside. Call someone. Just don't write a blog entry about how you did it, for Christ's sake.
Self-reflexive? Charmingly self-depricating? PROBABLY!
posted by DeadLanguage at 7:07 PM
1 Comments:
WEEELLLLLL I really wanna advise you against going 95MPH, you will be singing a diffrent tune the first time you get pulled over for speeds like that. I just paid the court system a grand total of 550$ for going 92 MPH at 2am. I didn't get a damn thing for it either... its sucks.
It stings.
Having just finished traffic school, the instructor made a good point which can incorporate into this post... Its SLIGHTLY hypocritical (I really don't think that is the right word for the situation... but then again, I say 'sounds' you say 'acoustic revelations' or whatever.) of you to curse drunk drivers, then travel at 95 MPH with balding tires.
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