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 B
Authors: Adam Carolla
no, this dick was going to make me follow him to downtown L.A. at one A.M . and fill out a bunch of paperwork.
All of a sudden I heard a voice yell, “Pull your tie-down off.” It was the voice of one of our directors, Tom. (Tom wasn’t exactly what you would call straitlaced. He once, in the middle of the AIDS hysteria of the late eighties, dressed as a junkie hobo and went into a crowded New York subway car and shot fake blood from a prosthetic penis at a horrified crowd of commuters.) I looked over and saw that Tom had taken the nylon lashings off the passenger-side rear wheel. I, without hesitation, pulled the lashings off the driver’s side, and then Tom screamed, “Go!” Keep in mind the rear wheels of the car were at the height of a kitchen countertop. Maybe it was adrenaline, maybe it was fear of being squirted by a fake penis, but I jumped into the car again.
The car didn’t budge. The problem was it’s rear-wheel drive, and the tires were on a rack that prevented them from rolling forward. Tom was now slapping the hood yelling, “Go!” This time I threw some revs on the engine and dropped the clutch. The car lurched forward and landed on the ground with a thud, hitting something on the way down. I didn’t have time to get out and assess the damage, I just hauled ass into the night, and so did Tom. I went home, poured myself a glass of wine, and did what I always do, waited for federal marshals to show up at the house.
The following morning I went down to the garage fearing the worst, and to my shock and delight the only thing wrong with the M3 was the spare-tire well in the trunk got converted from an innie to an outie. I pulled out the spare tire, climbed into the trunk, and jumped up and down on the sheet metal until it went back to its original form.
There are probably more than one of you at this point who feel sorry for the tow-truck driver. To you I say Suck it; this dick brought it on himself. This would have never happened in the past or today in New Jersey. We could have settled this with a couple of twenties and a handshake. But in the immortal words of John Rambo, “They drew first blood, not me.” Tow-truck drivers are the worst people on the planet, second only to meter maids. The lion’s share of the work these guys do consists of going on moneymaking sweeps with local cops and hanging out in flooded intersections to charge people fifty bucks to tow their stalled Hondas out of the drink. And the impound yards they work for are a bunch of extortionists. I got a motorcycle towed at eleven thirty on a Thursday night and went to pick it up at seven Friday morning and they charged me for two days’ storage. Feeling sorry for these assholes is like feeling sorry for Uday and Qusay Hussein. Fuck those guys. And besides, isn’t it nice to hear a story where the rich white guy wins for a change?
AIRPORT
2010
The airport simultaneously represents all that is right with our society and all that is wrong with it. The idea that I can be standing in front of my self-flushing urinal, evacuating my bladder with the gent to my right expelling a Diet Coke he may have consumed on another continent, while the sweet scent of the Cinnabon wafts under both our noses is nothing short of miraculous. Not to mention the most well-lit four hundred square feet on the planet, the duty-free shop, with its thirty-gallon Grey Goose bottles, oil-drum-sized containers of Chanel No. 5, and bricks of Toblerone in the window. Take that, terrorists. The airport is also a metaphor for why this country works: people of all shapes and sizes, from all parts of the globe, putting aside their religious and cultural differences for the common goal of getting drunk on a plane. There, I’ve completed my paragraph about what’s good about the airport. Now I can dedicate the next thirteen pages to why it sucks.
Airports are one big rule followed by a pile of regulations. If you’re not showing your ID, removing an article of
All of a sudden I heard a voice yell, “Pull your tie-down off.” It was the voice of one of our directors, Tom. (Tom wasn’t exactly what you would call straitlaced. He once, in the middle of the AIDS hysteria of the late eighties, dressed as a junkie hobo and went into a crowded New York subway car and shot fake blood from a prosthetic penis at a horrified crowd of commuters.) I looked over and saw that Tom had taken the nylon lashings off the passenger-side rear wheel. I, without hesitation, pulled the lashings off the driver’s side, and then Tom screamed, “Go!” Keep in mind the rear wheels of the car were at the height of a kitchen countertop. Maybe it was adrenaline, maybe it was fear of being squirted by a fake penis, but I jumped into the car again.
The car didn’t budge. The problem was it’s rear-wheel drive, and the tires were on a rack that prevented them from rolling forward. Tom was now slapping the hood yelling, “Go!” This time I threw some revs on the engine and dropped the clutch. The car lurched forward and landed on the ground with a thud, hitting something on the way down. I didn’t have time to get out and assess the damage, I just hauled ass into the night, and so did Tom. I went home, poured myself a glass of wine, and did what I always do, waited for federal marshals to show up at the house.
The following morning I went down to the garage fearing the worst, and to my shock and delight the only thing wrong with the M3 was the spare-tire well in the trunk got converted from an innie to an outie. I pulled out the spare tire, climbed into the trunk, and jumped up and down on the sheet metal until it went back to its original form.
There are probably more than one of you at this point who feel sorry for the tow-truck driver. To you I say Suck it; this dick brought it on himself. This would have never happened in the past or today in New Jersey. We could have settled this with a couple of twenties and a handshake. But in the immortal words of John Rambo, “They drew first blood, not me.” Tow-truck drivers are the worst people on the planet, second only to meter maids. The lion’s share of the work these guys do consists of going on moneymaking sweeps with local cops and hanging out in flooded intersections to charge people fifty bucks to tow their stalled Hondas out of the drink. And the impound yards they work for are a bunch of extortionists. I got a motorcycle towed at eleven thirty on a Thursday night and went to pick it up at seven Friday morning and they charged me for two days’ storage. Feeling sorry for these assholes is like feeling sorry for Uday and Qusay Hussein. Fuck those guys. And besides, isn’t it nice to hear a story where the rich white guy wins for a change?
AIRPORT
2010
The airport simultaneously represents all that is right with our society and all that is wrong with it. The idea that I can be standing in front of my self-flushing urinal, evacuating my bladder with the gent to my right expelling a Diet Coke he may have consumed on another continent, while the sweet scent of the Cinnabon wafts under both our noses is nothing short of miraculous. Not to mention the most well-lit four hundred square feet on the planet, the duty-free shop, with its thirty-gallon Grey Goose bottles, oil-drum-sized containers of Chanel No. 5, and bricks of Toblerone in the window. Take that, terrorists. The airport is also a metaphor for why this country works: people of all shapes and sizes, from all parts of the globe, putting aside their religious and cultural differences for the common goal of getting drunk on a plane. There, I’ve completed my paragraph about what’s good about the airport. Now I can dedicate the next thirteen pages to why it sucks.
Airports are one big rule followed by a pile of regulations. If you’re not showing your ID, removing an article of
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