- Jan 10, 2001
- 30,772
- 13
- 81
This is very long, but the author is a great writer. I'm sure it is fake, though.
I went camping a couple of weeks back and in the process got a bug up my
ass for a 4x4. So this week I thought, after doing some research, that I
wanted an Isuzu Trooper or a Land Rover Discovery. I found a really nice
Land Rover near by with all the trimmings and double sunroofs so I drove
my car to the dealership during my lunch hour to ask for a test drive.
The salesman had more important things to do than ride with me. He told
me to "Bring it back when you are done". Yeah, I'll try. There has been,
of late here in the South East, a drought. A drought that ended
approximately 1 week ago here in Tuscaloosa. I am not always known for
sound decision making. The tires on this truck were not made for
offroading. None of this matters to me, I'm taking this bitch off road.
Hell, it's flat DOWN there in that field, how bad can it be. And this is
a god-damned Land Rover, a Truck of Legends.
Whoa, down the hill I go, sliding. Sliding into not a field but a marsh.
Two inches of standing water everywhere. I know I am not getting this
truck out of here. "Damnit, I am going to try, though" I think out loud.
"I am NOT paying to have this BITCH towed out of this ****ing field". I
grin with perseverence, persitence and a knowledge that I am better than
this mud.
I go forward in 4W Low, full RPM. The truck grinds to a stop. I go
backwards, 4W Low, Full RPM. The truck grinds to a halt. I am at full
RPM, slamming the truck from "1" to "R", "1" to "R", "1" to "R". I do
this for 10 minutes, pedal never leaving the metal. I am a master of this
domain. I rule the mud as only a Lousianan can. There is now only me, the
mud, the wail of the truck's motor, the truck, grass, and smoke. Smoke?
It doesn't smell bad, but why it is coming out from under my truck?
Oh, Grass. What the ****? There is TWO GODDAMN INCHES OF STANDING WATER!
WHY IS THE GRASS ON FIRE? No answer is forthcoming from God, or Alabama.
The fact remains that I am lighting grass on fire EVERYWHERE I GO and the
TRUCK IS STUCK. I cannot stop now, there is NO TURNING BACK. Time passes.
I am at full RPM, slamming the truck from "1" to "R", "1" to "R", "1" to
"R". I do this for an hour, intermittently jumping out of the truck to
stomp out the worst of the fires. Panic is setting in as the temperature
on the truck's gauge steadily rises into the red. I am searching
desperately for more power, less temperature, more traction. I turn off
the AC, I push the random, incomprehensible British Buttons that make no
sense to my American mind that litter the dashboard. I attempt to let air
out of the tires, but am choked by the smoke and cannot find the little
air doohickeys in the mud. I have to open the moon roofs to let the smoke
out of the cabin. Panic has now assuredly, forcefully set in; it is no
longer the grass which is solely on fire. The smoke has changed to the
opacity and color of cardboard. I cannot describe the smell. I turn off
the truck, perhaps that will stop the heat since I cannot move it to a
non-burning place. This is clearly not helping, so I get back into the
truck, crank it up, and try to move it. At this point I know It is going
to explode. It moves, but the fire is definitely in the truck. It is with
me, and we three are dancing. I am wondering how I will explain to work
that I blew up in a test-drive.
The truck stops dancing first. It has completely over-heated. I cannot
remove the keys. I am not sure why this bothers me, but I cannot leave
the keys in the truck. Someone might steal it. WHY CAN'T I GET THE KEYS
OUT OF THE TRUCK? Stupid Brits. I flail, whack, push and wriggle the
keys free. There is visible fire, surely the truck will explode now. I am
now running for my life across the field as smoke and fire billows from
underneath the $40,000 truck. I think, "perhaps I could tie myself up and
lay down in the field over there!" No, no available rope, ah, and
witnesses. I run up the hill to the gas station, past the excited
onlookers who are pointing at the "$2000 Down!" paint job and tell the
woman to call 911. I have to tell her twice as she has been mesmerized by
the magic of the crowd and the smoke. I walk to the next building in line
and call The Wife who is 8.2 months pregnant. "Hey, I need you to come
pick me up, I am at the bar at Ruby Tuesday's, all will be clear when you
get here". It is 2:00 in the afternoon on a Monday.
I order Tequila and Beer and call the dealer.
Me: "Hey, I borrowed that Land Rover"
Dealer: "yeah, how are you?"
Me: "I'm fine. The truck is, however, in a field on fire"
Dealer: "what?"
Me: "..."
Dealer: "Where are you, and where is the truck?"
Me: "I am at Ruby Tuesday's by exit 77, you'll see the truck on your way
here. I'm at the bar."
Dealer: "I'll be right there".
Ok, so I call work and tell them I probably won't be in the rest of the
day and wait for The Wife or the dealer to show up. He shows up first. I
can see Ladder #9 in the distance silhouetted by a brown plume of smoke
rising from a field. He offers me a ride back to the dealership...I
decline as I am still waiting on The Wife and have not yet payed my tab.
He says "well, the police and the fire dept are filling out the report" I
say "You think I should talk to them?" He says "uh, yeah. I do."
I get to meet the Owner of the Dealership! He says "I didn't know we test
drove 'em down there." He is at least 90. I said "uh, yeah". Years of
working in for the state have taught me not to fall for their dirty
attempts at accepting any responsibility. He walks away. I don't think
he is impressed. I explain to everyone what happened (short version),
pointing to the various black patches in the field as proof. I go back to
the bar to have more beer. I have impressed HotGirl Bartendress with my
stupidity. She is giving me the eye, and more beer. I think I love her.
The Wife shows up. She says "Tell me that this doesn't have anything to
do with the Fire Trucks and Police". My years of state training fail me, I
say "uh, yeah, that's all me". The HotGirl Bartendress buys my drinks.
The Wife drives me back to the dealership and the salesmen (they have
gathered in a throng about my car). They ask The Wife whether or not she
has hit me yet. My salesman says "We'd still love to have your business!
We would love to make you a deal on that truck". I answered "Land Rovers
suck, how about that Isuzu?" He says "Well, I'm coming with you this
time". **** that, I'm going home.
That is, happily, where this story ends. No arrests, no insurance, no
movie, no bail, no hospital and no moral.
I went camping a couple of weeks back and in the process got a bug up my
ass for a 4x4. So this week I thought, after doing some research, that I
wanted an Isuzu Trooper or a Land Rover Discovery. I found a really nice
Land Rover near by with all the trimmings and double sunroofs so I drove
my car to the dealership during my lunch hour to ask for a test drive.
The salesman had more important things to do than ride with me. He told
me to "Bring it back when you are done". Yeah, I'll try. There has been,
of late here in the South East, a drought. A drought that ended
approximately 1 week ago here in Tuscaloosa. I am not always known for
sound decision making. The tires on this truck were not made for
offroading. None of this matters to me, I'm taking this bitch off road.
Hell, it's flat DOWN there in that field, how bad can it be. And this is
a god-damned Land Rover, a Truck of Legends.
Whoa, down the hill I go, sliding. Sliding into not a field but a marsh.
Two inches of standing water everywhere. I know I am not getting this
truck out of here. "Damnit, I am going to try, though" I think out loud.
"I am NOT paying to have this BITCH towed out of this ****ing field". I
grin with perseverence, persitence and a knowledge that I am better than
this mud.
I go forward in 4W Low, full RPM. The truck grinds to a stop. I go
backwards, 4W Low, Full RPM. The truck grinds to a halt. I am at full
RPM, slamming the truck from "1" to "R", "1" to "R", "1" to "R". I do
this for 10 minutes, pedal never leaving the metal. I am a master of this
domain. I rule the mud as only a Lousianan can. There is now only me, the
mud, the wail of the truck's motor, the truck, grass, and smoke. Smoke?
It doesn't smell bad, but why it is coming out from under my truck?
Oh, Grass. What the ****? There is TWO GODDAMN INCHES OF STANDING WATER!
WHY IS THE GRASS ON FIRE? No answer is forthcoming from God, or Alabama.
The fact remains that I am lighting grass on fire EVERYWHERE I GO and the
TRUCK IS STUCK. I cannot stop now, there is NO TURNING BACK. Time passes.
I am at full RPM, slamming the truck from "1" to "R", "1" to "R", "1" to
"R". I do this for an hour, intermittently jumping out of the truck to
stomp out the worst of the fires. Panic is setting in as the temperature
on the truck's gauge steadily rises into the red. I am searching
desperately for more power, less temperature, more traction. I turn off
the AC, I push the random, incomprehensible British Buttons that make no
sense to my American mind that litter the dashboard. I attempt to let air
out of the tires, but am choked by the smoke and cannot find the little
air doohickeys in the mud. I have to open the moon roofs to let the smoke
out of the cabin. Panic has now assuredly, forcefully set in; it is no
longer the grass which is solely on fire. The smoke has changed to the
opacity and color of cardboard. I cannot describe the smell. I turn off
the truck, perhaps that will stop the heat since I cannot move it to a
non-burning place. This is clearly not helping, so I get back into the
truck, crank it up, and try to move it. At this point I know It is going
to explode. It moves, but the fire is definitely in the truck. It is with
me, and we three are dancing. I am wondering how I will explain to work
that I blew up in a test-drive.
The truck stops dancing first. It has completely over-heated. I cannot
remove the keys. I am not sure why this bothers me, but I cannot leave
the keys in the truck. Someone might steal it. WHY CAN'T I GET THE KEYS
OUT OF THE TRUCK? Stupid Brits. I flail, whack, push and wriggle the
keys free. There is visible fire, surely the truck will explode now. I am
now running for my life across the field as smoke and fire billows from
underneath the $40,000 truck. I think, "perhaps I could tie myself up and
lay down in the field over there!" No, no available rope, ah, and
witnesses. I run up the hill to the gas station, past the excited
onlookers who are pointing at the "$2000 Down!" paint job and tell the
woman to call 911. I have to tell her twice as she has been mesmerized by
the magic of the crowd and the smoke. I walk to the next building in line
and call The Wife who is 8.2 months pregnant. "Hey, I need you to come
pick me up, I am at the bar at Ruby Tuesday's, all will be clear when you
get here". It is 2:00 in the afternoon on a Monday.
I order Tequila and Beer and call the dealer.
Me: "Hey, I borrowed that Land Rover"
Dealer: "yeah, how are you?"
Me: "I'm fine. The truck is, however, in a field on fire"
Dealer: "what?"
Me: "..."
Dealer: "Where are you, and where is the truck?"
Me: "I am at Ruby Tuesday's by exit 77, you'll see the truck on your way
here. I'm at the bar."
Dealer: "I'll be right there".
Ok, so I call work and tell them I probably won't be in the rest of the
day and wait for The Wife or the dealer to show up. He shows up first. I
can see Ladder #9 in the distance silhouetted by a brown plume of smoke
rising from a field. He offers me a ride back to the dealership...I
decline as I am still waiting on The Wife and have not yet payed my tab.
He says "well, the police and the fire dept are filling out the report" I
say "You think I should talk to them?" He says "uh, yeah. I do."
I get to meet the Owner of the Dealership! He says "I didn't know we test
drove 'em down there." He is at least 90. I said "uh, yeah". Years of
working in for the state have taught me not to fall for their dirty
attempts at accepting any responsibility. He walks away. I don't think
he is impressed. I explain to everyone what happened (short version),
pointing to the various black patches in the field as proof. I go back to
the bar to have more beer. I have impressed HotGirl Bartendress with my
stupidity. She is giving me the eye, and more beer. I think I love her.
The Wife shows up. She says "Tell me that this doesn't have anything to
do with the Fire Trucks and Police". My years of state training fail me, I
say "uh, yeah, that's all me". The HotGirl Bartendress buys my drinks.
The Wife drives me back to the dealership and the salesmen (they have
gathered in a throng about my car). They ask The Wife whether or not she
has hit me yet. My salesman says "We'd still love to have your business!
We would love to make you a deal on that truck". I answered "Land Rovers
suck, how about that Isuzu?" He says "Well, I'm coming with you this
time". **** that, I'm going home.
That is, happily, where this story ends. No arrests, no insurance, no
movie, no bail, no hospital and no moral.
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