I was going to write about the saga of our bathroom remodel. I had all my words marshalled up to wax idiotic about the downward spiral of causality: We need to replace the wall behind the toilet. We need to move the toilet. If we're moving the toilet, we really should replace the floor. If we're replacing the floor, we need to repair the subfloor under the toilet. Now that we can see the subfloor under the toilet, we need to remove the vanity to get at the rotted floor under it. Oh, and the sole plate of the wall behind the toilet is completely rotted out. Unless we're OK with the wall and floor collapsing in the foreseeable future (in other words in the time that we're living in the house), it should really be replaced with a section of treated 2x6. Now that we've got a ridiculously long shopping list of tools and materials, we may as well spend the afternoon at Home Depot sorting through stacks of heavy, crappy, waney, waterlogged lumber.
Despite all these fun and games, some cranial housekeeping got in the way:
Ralph Nader must be on the Republican National Committee's payroll. I think the old clown needs to do some deep introspection. He's already in a perfect position to do a rectal self-exam with his head so obviously crammed up his ass. The American people should welcome his announcement as warmly as they would a dose of syphilis. Yes, Ralph Nader is the chancre on the penis politic. By opening his overused trap, Ralphie strips away all fluffy Green Party platform, Unsafe at Any Speed bullshit and reveals a pitiful, sensationalist, press mongering fool.
It makes me want to buy a Corvair (preferably a turbo-charged 1965 Corsa Turbo) just to run down the crusty old fart.
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To the overly testosteroned gentleman in the late-model Toyota Pathfinder who nearly spun out into us this morning, I send out a big, juicy, spittle-flecked "fuck you".
So I'm sitting at a light waiting to turn left onto the freeway. The minivan is stuffed full of construction debris, including an old toilet and a sink. My wife and son chat away with each other as I think to myself "Listen up, me. Usually, when you're at the head of the line, you like to really gun it. You tell yourself that you do it because you prefer to be up to highway speed at the top of the onramp, but really you like to unleash all 240 horses under the hood of this staid familymobile. I understand that you're not racing anyone. You just like the sound of the engine and the feel of your body pressed into the seat back. But on this morning, you're going to bring it down a notch or two. You don't want large, heavy chunks of porcelain bouncing around inside the car. Besides, the road is still wet and slick from the night before. Pay no attention to the moron in the lane next to you. He's busy demonstrating his profound lack of any clue about the light cycle at this light by creeping forward and gunning his engine enthusiastically. Just take the turn nice and easy, and let the overtly stupid pilot of the Pathfinder do whatever he feels necessary to assert his acute case of testosterone poisoning."
The light turns green and I calmly drive into the intersection. As I enter the onramp and start my climb, I expect to see a flash of black pass me on the right. Nothing happens. I accelerate for another ten yards or so. Still nothing. I think "Screw this." I'm headed in a straight line and going fast enough to minimize losing traction, so I floor it. As our trusty V6 builds up to a roar, I glance in my rearview mirror to satisfy my curiosity. What I see in less than a second is a black Pathfinder in the final stages of a mild spinout. The driver's side rear whips out and misses the rear of our minivan by a few feet.
The first words out of my mouth are "Holy shit!" My brain then turns on and reminds me that my son, who is now a near perfect mimic, is sitting in his car seat behind me.
I divide my eyeball attention between the onramp in front of us and the tableau of spun-out SUV behind us while I explain what just happened to my wife.
Unfortunately, the driver of the Pathfinder... no, I can't call him a "driver". He's more like a monkey pushing pedals, twiddling the wheel, listening to KSJO, and defecating into his hand. Anyway, the monkey in the Pathfinder somehow avoided rolling over or being hit. Moments later, he was passing us at around 85 mph and weaving through traffic like he was playing Pole Position.
Of course, I'd like to see this as validation of my occasional "Punch it, Bishop!" driving style, but I'd just be kidding myself.
My wife did notice a trend though. Whenever we have a birthday present in the car for our friends' daughter, we attract clueless morons bent on ramming into us. Last year about this time, it was the raging fuckhole cell-phone-user who tried to kill my wife and son by slamming his F250 XtraCab pickup into the back of our Honda Accord at 40 mph. Next year, we'll probably mail the present the 24 miles from San Jose to Mountain View.
But the part that burns me the most? If the Pathfinder primate had managed to crash into us, he would've called it an "accident."
Asshole.
Pakeha