So my car’s being painted.
In the meantime, I’ve been using dad’s truck to get around. I have always hated that truck. It smells of cheap booze and cheesy cologne mixed with sweat. And he seems to like it that way. Not only that, but being seen in that wine-colored excuse for a vehicle is like showing up for class in your underwear. Pure, unadulterated shame. It has a registration sticker collection on each side of the windshield (my father doesn’t believe in removing the old ones to make space for the new, apparently that would be a waste of good sticker…) and, to add insult to injury, the damn thing has a propeller in the back. A fucking propeller! Even at my work I’m the butt of every joke every time it rains a lot!
But that’s not what’s bothering me right now. Last weekend, my parents decided to go to the west to visit my brothers’ filthy, neglected, furniture impaired apartment. They decided to buy some groceries before leaving, and my mother suggested turning back home to leave that stuff, since they’d bought some meat and items that needed refrigeration. My father, being the thickheaded troglodyte that he is, said: "Bah! those things are frozen, we can afford to go there and back without anything getting spoiled."
When they returned, as usual, I had to help carry the bags, and I notice one of them (which, coincidentally, is a brown paper bag) is dripping. Mother says "careful with that meat" a little too late, since I had already smeared a good part of my leg with what I’d like to call "liquid salmonella".
Of course, the meat juice left a nasty little stench of the back, which prompted my mom to wash the inside of the truck the next day with Doctor Mecánico.
The following day it didn’t just smell like rancid meat, but rancid meat with a hint of citrus. Truly revolting. Even though the inside of the car had been scrubbed and scoured thy kingdom come, it still smelled like a pack of rabid skunks crawled out of the devil’s ass, hopped in there and died. The worst thing was that the more time passed, the worse the smell got. Unfortunately I had to use the truck again to go to work, and this afternoon, when I punched out and opened the truck to leave, the stench smacked me in the face like a Thai whore who skimmed money from her pimp. I swear, my nose hairs were melted off.
I had to ride the whole fucking way back home with both front windows open and the AC on it’s maximum.
What really pisses me off is that Lucifer is the one who gets into this kind of avoidable shit all the time for not being modest enough to listen. All he ever listens to is the little voice (or voices) in his head telling him that it’s his way or no way. And then someone else (read: me, my bro or my mom) always end up paying for his mistakes, one way or another.
Right now I’m paying for his lazyness, having to cruise around town in a purple truck with a boat propeller on it’s rear, while trying to survive the faint-inducing smell of a haitian meat market. The fucking stink even caused me a headache, I had to pop a couple of Tylenol PM’s to ease the throbbing, and they are starting to work as I type…
Well, that’s all there is to…
I meant to say…
I’m gonna..
…ZZZzZzZzZZZzZZzzZZzzZZzZzZzZ
