For my lunch break, I took a trip over to the local gas station to pick up a sandwich. I was waiting in line behind a rather large man, with disheveled shoulder-length hair, wearing sweatpants, a Nascar tank top, and some crocs.
I could probably stop the story here, but it gets better…
The man is talking to the rather annoyed girl behind the counter…
“I think there’s something wrong with my car”
“really?”
“yeah, it started makin a huge noise when I parked. I probably should get it checked out at a garage, but who’s got the money for that, huh?”
The counter girl looks at me “Can I help who’s next”
I finish my transaction and go outside to my car, which is parked next to the large gentleman’s 1986 Ford Explorer. Hanging off the bottom of his car is the entire drive train (for you car illiterates, I understand it to be the metal pole running through the middle of the car, connecting the front and real axles). The guy starts to back up and the sound of the metal on the ground sounds like someone trying to move a dumpster in a thunderstorm. Geez guy, you think there’s a noise coming from your car?
One mechanic from the oil change place across the street comes barreling out at the guy, trying to get him to quit driving. He’s screaming and waiving his arms, but the guy can’t hear him over his piece of shit car.
Suddenly the explorer stops, the guy gets out of his car, and says to me “I can’t get the wheels to turn, what’s going on here?” As if to say I somehow sabotaged his car for my own personal gain.
At this point, the mechanic catches up with the guy and tells him to look under his car. At which point the large man says, and I shit you not about this,
“I could still drive it home though couldn’t I?”
Oh Jesus Christ
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