So I am making my drive home late tonight, and I notice a familiar set of headlights in my rearview mirror. Using my uber car sense I think to myself thats a later 944 Turbo, or perhaps an S2.
The car comes up along side me. It's got the S2 wheels; I know this because I have the Turbo wheels. So it's a 944 S2. Nice car. It's also a Cabrio, which I then say to myself It must be a somewhat rare 1992ish S2.
At the next light we are beside each other, he's in the 'left' left turn lane, to make a U turn, I'm in the 'right' left turn lane to actually turn left. The S2 is shiney. A really nice car. Needless to say the roof is down. It is occupied by two twenty something males with collar shirts and gelled back hair. It's obvious this car exists solely to extend the driver's ego.
The driver pipes up:
"Hey, Nice car"
Wow. This kid is in way over his head. I guess I'll be nice, the light can't last that long...
"Not as nice as yours" I say back
"What year is it?" he says, as if we didn't see that coming
"88 924S" I figured I'd clarify the model just in case
"Mine's a 1992 944S2 Cab-ree-oh-lay" HA! I was right! . . . And Why Did you feel the need to tell me it's a Cab? I'm not blind you idiot. "They only made 2400 of them" Now I am fairly sure that there were fewer of the 1988 924S built, but I'll let that one go.
"Yeah man, I know my Porsches, that's a nice car."
"Yeah, they're all great" the light turns green, and as we pull away he says: "There is no substitution"
I press the gas pedel- Harder.
You God Damn Fudge Packer. If you've got to be a fucking status driver at least get your movie quotes right. It's "There is No Substitute." - "There is No Substitution" sounds like a poorly subtitled Japanese Baseball game. Do us all a favor and sell that car to someone who will know what they have.
I glared out the window as he made his U turn. I saw his tag- "POR5CH3"
Monday, November 29, 2004
Wednesday, November 3, 2004
I like monkeys
The pet store was selling them for 5¢ a piece. I thought that odd since they were normally a couple thousand each. I decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. I bought 200. I like monkeys.
I took my 200 monkeys home. I have a big car. I let one drive. His name was Sigmund. He was retarded. In fact, none of them were really bright. They kept punching themselves in their genitals. I laughed. Then they punched my genitals. I stopped laughing.
I herded them into my room. They didn't adapt very well to their new environment. They would screech, hurl themselves off of the couch at high speeds and slam into the wall. Although humorous at first, the spectacle lost its novelty halfway into its third hour.
Two hours later I found out why all the monkeys were so inexpensive: they all died. No apparent reason. They all just sorta' dropped dead. Kinda' like when you buy a goldfish and it dies five hours later. Damn cheap monkeys.
I didn't know what to do. There were 200 dead monkeys lying all over my room, on the bed, in the dresser, hanging from my bookcase. It looked like I had 200 throw rugs.
I tried to flush one down the toilet. It didn't work. It got stuck. Then I had one dead, wet monkey and 199 dead, dry monkeys.
I tried pretending that they were just stuffed animals. That worked for a while, that is until they began to decompose. It started to smell real bad.
I had to pee but there was a dead monkey in the toilet and I didn't want to call the plumber. I was embarrassed.
I tried to slow down the decomposition by freezing them. Unfortunately there was only enough room for two monkeys at a time so I had to change them every 30 seconds. I also had to eat all the food in the freezer so it didn't all go bad.
I tried burning them. Little did I know my bed was flammable. I had to extinguish the fire.
Then I had one dead, wet monkey in my toilet, two dead, frozen monkeys in my freezer, and 197 dead, charred monkeys in a pile on my bed. The odor wasn't improving.
I became agitated at my inability to dispose of my monkeys and to use the bathroom. I severely beat one of my monkeys. I felt better.
I tried throwing them way but the garbage man said that the city wasn't allowed to dispose of charred primates. I told him that I had a wet one. He couldn't take that one either. I didn't bother asking about the frozen ones.
I finally arrived at a solution. I gave them out as Christmas gifts. My friends didn't know quite what to say. They pretended that they like them but I could tell they were lying. Ingrates. So I punched them in the genitals.
I took my 200 monkeys home. I have a big car. I let one drive. His name was Sigmund. He was retarded. In fact, none of them were really bright. They kept punching themselves in their genitals. I laughed. Then they punched my genitals. I stopped laughing.
I herded them into my room. They didn't adapt very well to their new environment. They would screech, hurl themselves off of the couch at high speeds and slam into the wall. Although humorous at first, the spectacle lost its novelty halfway into its third hour.
Two hours later I found out why all the monkeys were so inexpensive: they all died. No apparent reason. They all just sorta' dropped dead. Kinda' like when you buy a goldfish and it dies five hours later. Damn cheap monkeys.
I didn't know what to do. There were 200 dead monkeys lying all over my room, on the bed, in the dresser, hanging from my bookcase. It looked like I had 200 throw rugs.
I tried to flush one down the toilet. It didn't work. It got stuck. Then I had one dead, wet monkey and 199 dead, dry monkeys.
I tried pretending that they were just stuffed animals. That worked for a while, that is until they began to decompose. It started to smell real bad.
I had to pee but there was a dead monkey in the toilet and I didn't want to call the plumber. I was embarrassed.
I tried to slow down the decomposition by freezing them. Unfortunately there was only enough room for two monkeys at a time so I had to change them every 30 seconds. I also had to eat all the food in the freezer so it didn't all go bad.
I tried burning them. Little did I know my bed was flammable. I had to extinguish the fire.
Then I had one dead, wet monkey in my toilet, two dead, frozen monkeys in my freezer, and 197 dead, charred monkeys in a pile on my bed. The odor wasn't improving.
I became agitated at my inability to dispose of my monkeys and to use the bathroom. I severely beat one of my monkeys. I felt better.
I tried throwing them way but the garbage man said that the city wasn't allowed to dispose of charred primates. I told him that I had a wet one. He couldn't take that one either. I didn't bother asking about the frozen ones.
I finally arrived at a solution. I gave them out as Christmas gifts. My friends didn't know quite what to say. They pretended that they like them but I could tell they were lying. Ingrates. So I punched them in the genitals.
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