A Fool and His Bucket Are Soon Parted

So before I drift off to la-la land (the state of consciousness, not Los Angeles), I'll give you lovely people a short recap of how my day went. Which is kinda the point of this whole "blog" thing, but I have been known to talk about things completely irrelevant to my daily life. Whatever. Let's just push onward because I really am pretty damn tired.

OK. So as I'm leaving law school, I check my voicemail and see that I have a message from Kelly. Her day had been going kind of poo-ish, and she was hoping mine was faring better. Indeed, mine was. I was feeling confident as a cat, and even remembered to turn in a Legal Professions paper early. So I sned her a message back telling her that my day's been just fine and dandy, but that I was really hoping later this night that I wouldn't accidentally write "sned" instead of "send" while describing my voicemail in Operation: Bucket. I then wished her a good remainder of the day, told her I would chat with her once she got off work, and pressed the end button.

But the end button on my cell phone is deceiving because the impact of my words had ramifications that did not "end" with that voicemail relaying how well my day had went. Oh, sweet irony.

Three minutes later, I'm merging onto the highway, and I have one of those assholes who changes speed on me while I'm trying adjust MY speed to get into the lane. So I finally slow down and let him pass me and ba-CRACK-bump. What in the name of shit that is holy was that!?!? Definitely felt like I ran something over that was... metal? I quickly check my rearview mirror just in time to see what appears to be a wrench-like object richocheting off the pavement behind me.







Devil, thy name is Wrench.





Not exactly sure why things that look like wrenches are in the middle of 4-lane highways. Perhaps it had been following its momma wrench along with its siblings in a migratory path across I-75, seeking the protection of the woods beyond. Or perhaps some jackass with a pick-up truck just didn't lock his tool box down properly on his rush to get home, watch NASCAR, and neglect his kids.

In any case, I drove on...

... for about a half mile before I noticed my steering was getting shakey. And then there was the sound of rubber being dragged across pavement as my car slowly began to... uh... slow down. Gravy. Great. Splendid. Terrific. Blown tire. And absolutely no where suitable to pull over where I could safely get out and change it. So I had to drive a full mile and a half to the next exit. Wouldn't be so bad if the tire was just leaking air or had a puncture in it, but this tire was fucked. More fucked than that chick from my Con Law class.

So I finally get to pull over, and I'm telling you. Whatever I hit really did a number on that tire. There were three gaping holes in the side of the tire... or better yet, the shreds of rubber that used to be the side of the tire. No wonder it instantly deflated on me. What didn't deflate? My confidence, baby. Because guys like me stay confident. Confident like a cat. Not confident like racist slurs suggested by Paul's comment to the last article.

Quick side note: For the love of God, Paul. I know I made you a groomsman, but I'm telling you upfront... if you plan at making any speeches or toasts at my wedding, I'm gonna have to censor your ass like mother fucking FCC.

Back on topic, the tire's appearance reminded me of the end of the Kennedy presidency: shot. So I whipped out my mad tire-changing skills and got that mangled heap outta there, replaced with a lovely donut. Just stable enough to get my ass to a car shop and buy a new tire. Boo Yah.

I then decided to treat myself with self-medication. The doctor? Me. The pharmacy? Stevie B's Pizza Buffet! It's like a slightly... ever so slightly... better version of Cici's. Not high class stuff, but I just wanted to stuff my soul with greasy cheese and fart out enlightenment. Had six slices of variantly topped pizzas, two bread sticks, a slice of dessert pizza, and three cinnamon-roll-stick-sugar things. The cinnamon things are typically way too sugary and covered in like a layer of syruppy brown sugar as well. But today, they were even worse, which worked for me.

The bottom of the pan holding them was a molten layer of liquid cinnamon, so that each cinnamon thing was doused on the bottom. And on top? About a centimeter-thick layer of powdered sugar. I'm not even shitting you. It was that thick, and to top it off, the sugar was practically into being SOLID... and I ate three of them. Whatever my original day to die was, I just shaved a good three years off of that. Fair enough? Always is.