In Fifty Years We'll All Be Chicks: And Other Complaints from an Angry Middle-Aged White Guy by Adam Carolla Read Free Book Online Page A

this whole mess if you just boarded up the doors and got on the roof with a hunting rifle like a Korean liquor-store owner during a black riot. Or you could just give everyone what they’re asking for since it doesn’t cost you an extra goddamn penny.
    She explained that she could get into trouble. I said, “Go get your manager, we need to talk about shawarma and your attitude.” She said, “He’s not here.” I asked, “Then how is he gonna know you gave me the fifty-fifty shawarma plate?” But Tammy-Faye Baklava wouldn’t budge. At this point a lesser man would have ordered the falafel plate, but this American said “Let’s roll” to the Zankou in East Hollywood. She just grunted and gave me the see-you-in-hell look. I left with the satisfaction of knowing that in a few short years her Armenian husband would be beating the holy shit out of her. And that’s not a slight against Armenian men; if she married Carl Sagan he’d be beating the fuck out of this bitch on a nightly basis.
    I hopped into my Honda and set sail for the Zankou Chicken on Hollywood and Normandy, which is nowhere near the Zankou on Sepulveda and Burbank in Van Nuys, where I was. A scant fifty minutes later, and now starving, I walked into the Hollywood Zankou Chicken, said to a guy who looked like Khalid Sheikh Mohammed, “Give me a fifty-fifty shawarma plate,” and without any hesitation he said, “Would you like a drink with that?” My first impulse was to drive back to Van Nuys to settle that bitch’s hummus. But by that time my blood sugar and resolve were both dropping quickly. So I settled in for one of the most, and simultaneously least, satisfying lunches of my life.
    I’ll leave you with another tale of a minimum wager attempting to ruin my life, but this one has a storybook ending. I was at a billiards hall drinking beer and shooting pool on a Friday night after a Man Show taping. It was a Man Show tradition. After every tape night we would go to a big pool hall and drink pitchers of beer until the PAs got drunk enough to tell you what they really thought of you. I was in the middle of a conversation with a PA about how Jimmy was the funny one when somebody ran up the stairs and yelled, “They’re towing your car.”
    I, along with a couple of people, ran down the stairs and across the street to find my car hooked up to a tow truck that was ready to drive away. I’ll bore you with a few quick details because they’re important to the telling of the story. One, the car was a brand-new silver BMW M3, and two, the tow truck was one of those modern-style ones that had the two prongs that slid under your back tires and lifted the rear end of the car off the ground.
    I ran up to the gentleman and said, “This is my car, how can we take care of this?” And he said, “You can follow me to the impound lot.” I said, “How about we just take care of this right now? I’ll pay you and we can both go our separate ways.” He said, “That’s not going to work,” and began to drive away. I jumped into my car and mashed my foot on the brake pedal as hard as I could. He dragged me for a couple of feet, then jumped out of the tow truck and yelled, “What are you doing?” I said, “You’re not towing the car. Let’s just take care of this now.” He said, “I have to tow the car. If I don’t come back to the impound lot with a car, my boss will ask questions.” I said, “Do you ever go out on a call and by the time you show up, the car is gone?” He said it happens all the time. I said, “Let’s just make this one of those times.” He said no and headed for the cab of his truck. I then headed for the driver’s seat of my car and we began round two of Dancing with the Tards .
    We both jumped out of our vehicles, got into it again, and at a certain point I said, “Why are you being such an asshole?” This could have been settled easily and nobly the way our forefathers would have done it—with a trip to the ATM. But