Jacked Up

Four hours ago I was going to start this post out by simply declaring, “I’m badass.”

But that was while I was on my way to change Sara’s flat tire. An hour later I was quite a bit less boisterous.

So now I’ll start the blog like this:

Have you ever gotten to work and thought to yourself, “Man, these pants really suck ass”?

That’s how my day started. The pants were tan but not khaki. I’ve worn them for years and love them, but they’re just way too casual for work attire. So when I got to work I realized I just looked like a real American instead of the left-wing elitist I really am, and suddenly felt underdressed, ashamed, and embarrassed.

So I spent the whole day feeling unbelievably self-conscious. That was until about 6:30 when the wife called me to say she had a flat tire.

“A flat tire?” I asked.

“A flat tire,” she said.

“Like flat, flat?”

“Flat, flat.”

Fuck.

So I drove over to the Vanderbilt Medical Center parking garage to survey the situation. What I found was a flat tire. Suddenly I was really happy that I’d worn my less than business casual, comfortable pants, because I knew I was going to be crawling around the ground of the garage.

 I quickly jacked up the car, loosened the lug nuts, and pulled the old tire off. Just as I was feeling really good about myself, and just as I was about to stick the flat tire under the frame of the car to keep it supported, the car jack collapsed and the car went crashing to the pavement. I shit my pants. When it comes to the world of changing tires, having the jack collapse thereby allowing the car to crash to the pavement is pretty close to worst-case scenario.  

Ultimately I ended up using the jack from my car to replace the collapsed jack from Sara’s car to get the spare on. I don’t think there was any real damage to the car, but I can’t be sure.

The real point is, this is the second time I’ve had a jack collapse on me. The first, I was lucky enough to have the flat tire under the car frame. This time, obviously, not so lucky. So the real question is, why do these car jacks blow? I don’t know. I can only assume they’re made in like New York City, or Massachusetts, or Seattle, or worse yet, Mexico, Asia or like Spain. You know, not by real, honest, hard working Americans. That’s why they suck so bad.

At any rate, I think everything will be all right. I just need to take the car to the dealership to have them give it a once-over. Then I need to go to Saks to get some new pants.