Puppies and Oil
Did I ever tell you about Newt the dog who barked at his food bowl all day? This dog was so ridiculously paranoid he’d bark away intruders, even if the only intruders were me and maybe a visiting friend. He’d take a bite, chomp-chomp, and then yelp…bite, chomp-chomp and yelp…for like fifteen minutes straight. He ate very slowly.
I lived with this dog, back when I Craigslisted-it with this thirty-something Republican dude who owned guns and a semi-retarded dog named Newt. He had another dog, “T”, but T was pretty normal. Only, he had a red rocket the size of a dry-erase marker. But T was pretty sweet.
My Craigslister roomie was the one who first told me about the Subaru that I now own. He shouted from the kitchen, four Modelos deep, “Dude, that WRX hauls major ass! Best performance bargain on the market. Burp!” I now tell that to people I meet, sans burping.
Speaking of the car, I changed my oil for the first time ever. It only took three hours, a trip to Pep Boys, a ruined shirt and several bouts of diuretic anxiety, but hey, I did it. Why anxiety, you ask? Well, that’s because my landlord was hovering around the premises all day, fixing things, and wasn’t too keen on my pulling a Nascar pit maneuver in his driveway. He could tell from the onset that I was no pro.
At one point, I unscrewed the oil pan lugnut and released five quarts of oil into my shifty oil catching pan – all at once. About 4.9 quarts spilled over, onto my driveway, creating an oily cesspool. I stressed balls over that one. The best I could do was throw some rocks over it, but it still looks like rocks floating in oil. I hope that oil doesn’t end up in my Euro-style bath/shower that I use sitting down.
When I told my dad about the oil mixup, he said, “Son, I can’t count on one hand the number of times I didn’t spill some oil.”
I lived with this dog, back when I Craigslisted-it with this thirty-something Republican dude who owned guns and a semi-retarded dog named Newt. He had another dog, “T”, but T was pretty normal. Only, he had a red rocket the size of a dry-erase marker. But T was pretty sweet.
My Craigslister roomie was the one who first told me about the Subaru that I now own. He shouted from the kitchen, four Modelos deep, “Dude, that WRX hauls major ass! Best performance bargain on the market. Burp!” I now tell that to people I meet, sans burping.
Speaking of the car, I changed my oil for the first time ever. It only took three hours, a trip to Pep Boys, a ruined shirt and several bouts of diuretic anxiety, but hey, I did it. Why anxiety, you ask? Well, that’s because my landlord was hovering around the premises all day, fixing things, and wasn’t too keen on my pulling a Nascar pit maneuver in his driveway. He could tell from the onset that I was no pro.
At one point, I unscrewed the oil pan lugnut and released five quarts of oil into my shifty oil catching pan – all at once. About 4.9 quarts spilled over, onto my driveway, creating an oily cesspool. I stressed balls over that one. The best I could do was throw some rocks over it, but it still looks like rocks floating in oil. I hope that oil doesn’t end up in my Euro-style bath/shower that I use sitting down.
When I told my dad about the oil mixup, he said, “Son, I can’t count on one hand the number of times I didn’t spill some oil.”
posted by Smidge at 10:43 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home