19 October 2006


I made the phone call no one wants to make today. I phoned my mechanic Buck. Back when I drove cars older than me I used to have to phone my mechanic all the time. Cars were simpler then and cheap to fix. Hell, I had a Chrysler that I plunked five motors into before it was finally sent to Japan to be recycled into a Toyota. Now, despite the expense, cars are one of the only consumer items we do not tip into the dump, instead of having them repaired, when they break down.

Buck was happy to hear from me. "Beer!" he shouted above what sounded like Ozzy Osbourne in the background, "Don't tell me that Japanese piece of shit finally broke down on you."

Buck and I are both from the days before Japanese pieces of shit became the car of choice for the polluting public. Who would have guessed back in the '70s that the same people who made the mistake of bombing Hawaii and the Datsun 510 would one day be able to charge us more than we ever thought we would pay for a house for a car with a better reputation than a Ford or a Chevy?

I told him what was wrong with my car. Buck told me, "I never thought you, of all the old school Sliverville motherfuckers, would get behind the wheel of one of those radioactive, rusty pieces of shit. I'll order the parts. Lucky for you the Loonie has appreciated so much or you would need a loan from the fucking bank. Bring it by on Saturday. Luckily I live downhill from your place."

Before I hung up I asked Buck, "What's it going to cost me."

He answered, "Same as usual ... except make it two ounces. Inflation you know."

What he meant was deflation. The price of pot has been driven into the ground ever since the backward bastard who really deserves to have an atom bomb dropped on his village fucked with New York City and made border security the biggest thing to hit America since Tora, Tora, Tora.

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