God, I love Halloween. It’s the one day out of the year where it’s OK for a grown-ass man to act like a little kid. Unlike the other 363 days out of the year, where I also act like a little kid, but it’s not OK. And before you dispute my mad math skills, I usually take one day a year off to act like an adult. Don’t even try to catch me in a mistake. I’m unmistakable.

I had a most humbling experience last night on the way home from work. I’m busy driving, laughing my ass off to the Raw Dog channel on Sirius satellite radio (if you haven’t gotten a sat radio yet, you’re past tense. Go get one now before you’re made to use rotary phones.) when all of a sudden I hear that dreaded flapping sound that no driver wants to hear. I had a flat. No biggie – I’m a manly man, and I for DAMN sure know how to change a tire. So I pull over into a parking lot, break out the jack, get the spare, and proceed to jack the Jeep up to remove the flat. I had a 5 inch gash in that bitch, so I hit something pretty hard. I get the flat off, and go to put on the spare.

I couldn’t get it on.
The Jeep was jacked up high enough, so I cranked until the crank said “Oh KAY! You can fuckin’ STOP now!” I try again to put the tire on. No dice. The holes for the lugs were about 4 inches too high. What the fuck? I’ve changed tires before. So I tried to put the flat back on so that I could lower the Jeep down again, but…I couldn’t get THAT one on either. Great. I lowered the Jeep all the way down until it was resting on the naked wheel. I moved the jack to a different spot and tried again. Nothing. Twice more I tried that bullshit, going so far as to actually jack the truck up under the hitch. The damn truck simply wouldn’t go any higher, and I was out of patience and ideas. I sent a text to The Pirate, because I was mad and venting, and she’s good with the venting. She offered to help. Oh HELLS no! Male pride would NOT allow me to accept that offer, even if she WAS within 1000 miles of my location. Heffa. I stopped replying. I called DWW. At first she said “Do you want me to come there?” I’d walk home, bouncing the spare tire like a basketball before I had her come rescue me like that. Then she said the three words I really, really didn’t want to hear:
“Call Triple A.”
A man calling Triple A to fix a flat tire is like him calling the fire department because his grill is “a little hot”. It’s an admission of failure, and it burned my soul to dial that 800 number. That bastard who took my information was laughing at me, too. I know he was. All saying shit like “Oh, I didn’t even know they HAD Washington Mutual banks out there. Interesting.” I mean, just send the damn tow truck to me, ok? I don’t need you ridiculing me. What’s so “interesting” about me pulling into a bank parking lot, unless you just wanna laugh at me about not being able to fix a flat? I half expected him to ask me if the guys needed to adjust my panties when they got there.

Grrr.
I was redeemed, though, when the tow truck guys arrived. They took one look at the Jeep, and they both said “Aw, shit. A Jeep.” Apparently Jeeps have these things called “leaf springs” or something on the rear wheels, so that when you jack the Jeep up, those springs allow the wheel to sag downward. The only place to put the jack is under the differential, or the “wheel stick”, as I called it last night when the dude showed me. Vindication!! I wasn’t a girlie man after all. They applauded my efforts, and while I only had $2.80 to tip them, I DID give them a Nonetheless CD and told them to come to a show sometime, and I’d buy ’em a beer. Good guys.
When I FINALLY got home, I had to carve a pumpkin for Halloween. Now, I don’t have the mad carving skills of Dirk, but I can throw down a little, especially for a left-handed mofo:


Ignore the missing ear on the bat. I pulled a little too eagerly when I was putting the finishing touches on. Oh, well. The boys seem to like it, but I think it’s craptacular myself. I’ve done better. Hell, next year I’ll hire an expert: OJ Simpson. You KNOW that bastard’s pumpkins look TIGHT! He’s an excellent carver.
At work today we’re having costume contest. For the individual portion I’ll be dressed in that gorgeous ensemble I debuted in the Confessional post. But for the group, the theme is “mimes”, so here’s me as a hippie mime:

Don’t I look just like I was in that movie “Dead Presidents” with Larenz Tate? Look it up on IMDB.com. You’ll see.

EDIT: Here I am in the full-blown hippie get-up. Jimi Hendrix, eat your heart out.

Oh, wait. Nevermind.

God, I’m fat.

Our mime group won second place to a bunch of hookers and pimps. Nice.

Tonight is trick-or-treating, or as I like to call it, “No, you CAN’T have just one more peanut butter cup, ’cause I’m saving some for me. Don’t you HAVE a daddy?” Night. It oughta be fun.

Peace!

EXTRA SORRY EDIT:
Fyrchk. Sweetie. I am *so* sorry! I totally didn’t mean to overlook your JONX-ASS birthday on Sunday, love. Forgive me. Don’t lock me up. Don’t beat me down with your night stick or your taser or your sap. Just remember that on your birthday, I was in pain and overly tired. People — go to Fyr’s site, leave her comments, and beg her to update her shit – I mean, wish her a belated happy birthday. I woulda sent you a gift, but the file wouldn’t fit in the cake I baked.

Mad love. Happy belated birthday, dear.

Much love to you, fellow charter member.

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