A Rather Embarrassing Situation

Well, it’s been a little while since I’ve written and there’s a perfectly good reason why. ‘Perfectly good’ in that it’s a reasonable excuse, but also rather, how shall we say, stupid.

You see, I was in my bathroom a couple weeks ago with approximately 8,000 of those green plastic army men.  I had been using them to stage mock-battles with my Great Mazinga and Mego Star Trek dolls, but growing tired of that, I decided to glue them into a giant-life sized green plastic army man as I’m rather lonely.

So very lonely.

At any rate, there I was in the bathroom with a lot of green plastic army men and a tub of industrial glue. I was also just wearing my Captain America underwear, which is pertinent, but a tale best saved for later. I had just mixed up the glue when I stepped on one of the little grenade throwing guys and fell over, in the process dropping the glue.

Which I landed in.

I must have also knocked myself out, because when I came to, I discovered I’d more-or-less glued myself face up on the floor. I had one arm free, which came in handy later, but the rest of me was firmly stuck. In hindsight, I should have probably just wrenched myself up before the glue had really set, but at the time I felt that keeping the skin on my back was really, really important.

So, yes, there I was. After a few futile attempts to get up, I resigned myself to chipping slowly away at the glue with one of the bazooka plastic army men. Oh, it wasn’t all bad. I had plenty of green plastic army men to play with and thanks to being near the open cabinet, could detach the water line if I needed a drink.

Sadly though, without food, I was forced into cannibalism.

Yes, I had to eat many of my green plastic army men. I felt badly about it, but I explained to them in great detail that in this situation, the needs of the one (myself) outweighed the needs of the many (them). Oh, there were protests, but in the end they nobly sacrificed themselves so that I could slowly chip my way out of the glue.

I am now fully free and aside from some spectacularly unpleasant (and green) bowel movements, seem to be doing well. I do have a large slab of glue still stuck to my back and my few remaining green plastic army men seem to have mutinied, as I can’t find them.

So there you have it. I have learned my lesson and the next time I decide to play with industrial strength adhesives and green plastic army men, I will wear a helmet. And have food on hand.

Lots and lots of food.

Cheers,

-Jason

Ion Capacitors

I have to take my truck in for repairs soon. I suspect it’s possessed, as something in the glove box screams when I turn on the left blinker and blood sprays out of the vents when I try to use the AC. These things I can deal with, but also it sometimes doesn’t want to start and the steering is a bit wobbly.

So I need a mechanic. And an exorcist, but first things first. Now, I have a problem when I take my truck in for repairs: despite being a reasonably large, hairy man with a diverse and impressive collection of bungie cords, I know nothing about how cars work.

Oh, I can pick out a car pretty well. If you had a line-up consisting of a stegosaurus, a clown, a car, and a Nintendo 64, I would pick out the car an easy 9 times out of 10. And if you happen to open the hood of a car, I can easily identify the engine, the radiator, the battery, the flippy thing, that thing that’s really expensive to fix, and the other thing that’s really, really expensive to fix.

However, you can’t show weakness in front of the mechanic or he’ll think less of you as a man. So, when I go to the mechanic and he presents me with a list of things that are wrong with my truck, I put on my Serious Frowny Face ™ and inspect the list with all the gravity of a General sending soldiers into battle. I will grunt and nod and try to ask questions that don’t sound idiotic.

“What’s this ‘brake light’ listed here?” I’ll say.

“That’s the red light on the back of the truck that lets other people know you’re stopping.”

“And what’s wrong with it?”

“It doesn’t work.”

“Ah.” I will then frown some more and point at something else. “What’s this?”

“Your address.”

“And this?”

“A smudge.”

“Hmmmmm. Okay, I’m on board with the brake light thing, but this here doesn’t make much sense.”

“That’s your name, sir.”

“Good to know. And what’s a Flux Capacitor?”

“That collects and stores the Flux.”

“My truck has one of those?”

 

“Two, actually.”

“Huh. Y’know, I don’t recall ever hearing about that before. I mean, I think I would have noticed a car commercial saying ‘now with a bigger Flux Capacitor or something.’”

“That’s because your truck is old. Newer ones have Ion Capacitors.” 

“That would explain it.”

“Great. Now please give me all of your money.”

Now obviously, they know I don’t know anything about cars. I know it. They know it. Everyone knows it. I just hope that they’re at least semi-honest and don’t bilk me on anything.

Besides, they don’t know Muffin likes to curl up behind the seat. There’s also a small sign that says ‘I have anti-venom. Let’s make a deal.’

Cheers,

-Jason