Drinky Crow
Banned
So WhiteMan (From Hammersmith Palais) rolls by my office about 2ish, bored to tears. I'm in the same boat, too; I'd just finished a big tools update, and was looking at ugly-ass ol' pile of bugs for the rest of the day, which was monstrously unappealing. Time for a late-day lunch break!
"what ho, guv'nor," WhiteMan says in his clipped British schoolboy accent, "fire up the lorry and take me to the import game store, where we may purchase a play or two for our PSPs."
"aight negro," I said. We hop into my truck and spin out onto the 520, toward Northgate. We're cruisin' over the bridge, ice chillin' and talkin' about my rumored but entirely nonexistent meth/Sudafed highball addiction, when it happens: THE BUCKET.
I'm goin' 70, and it leaps from some sort of hyperspace tunnel straight in the path of my little Ford Ranger. There is a loud crunching noise, and then a regular grating sound as we drag this plastic bucket for three miles to the I5 interchange. I do some rapid lane swerves to try and dislodge it, but no dice. People drive by and give me the thumbs up; I figure they are impressed with my bucket takedown skills, but WhiteMan informs me that the "thumbs up" and "waving" is of the sort gentrified British folks like himself do to spur on oafish American tourists and kids in the Special Olympics to greater heights of self-humiliation.
Fearful for my prized image of unadulterated hillbilly cool, I swing onto the shoulder and we take a look: I'm leaking a few different flavors of fluid, and the remnants of the bucket have fused with my drive shaft. WhiteMan makes this sort of nasal laughing/snorting thing effete Britons make when confronted with proletarian pratfalls as I grope around under the truck in the bog of cigarette butts and antifreeze Washington Highway Development calls an interstate entrance ramp shoulder.
I finally dislodge the bits, covering myself in god knows what kind of ick, and we lurch off to the import store. Nope, no Star Soldier for PSP, but I *did* see the finest collection of morbidly obese Asian dudes EVER, and each one was carrying a perfectly unique pewter statuette of a a popular underaged anime princess that was, by my reckoning, 104% breasts.
Anyway, the truck's in the shop now, where a stout but affable dude in a jumpsuit laughed at me for a good ten minutes. "Man," he said, "that bucket made you a bitch!" Goodbye $433 and some-odd cents.
Seriously.
"what ho, guv'nor," WhiteMan says in his clipped British schoolboy accent, "fire up the lorry and take me to the import game store, where we may purchase a play or two for our PSPs."
"aight negro," I said. We hop into my truck and spin out onto the 520, toward Northgate. We're cruisin' over the bridge, ice chillin' and talkin' about my rumored but entirely nonexistent meth/Sudafed highball addiction, when it happens: THE BUCKET.
I'm goin' 70, and it leaps from some sort of hyperspace tunnel straight in the path of my little Ford Ranger. There is a loud crunching noise, and then a regular grating sound as we drag this plastic bucket for three miles to the I5 interchange. I do some rapid lane swerves to try and dislodge it, but no dice. People drive by and give me the thumbs up; I figure they are impressed with my bucket takedown skills, but WhiteMan informs me that the "thumbs up" and "waving" is of the sort gentrified British folks like himself do to spur on oafish American tourists and kids in the Special Olympics to greater heights of self-humiliation.
Fearful for my prized image of unadulterated hillbilly cool, I swing onto the shoulder and we take a look: I'm leaking a few different flavors of fluid, and the remnants of the bucket have fused with my drive shaft. WhiteMan makes this sort of nasal laughing/snorting thing effete Britons make when confronted with proletarian pratfalls as I grope around under the truck in the bog of cigarette butts and antifreeze Washington Highway Development calls an interstate entrance ramp shoulder.
I finally dislodge the bits, covering myself in god knows what kind of ick, and we lurch off to the import store. Nope, no Star Soldier for PSP, but I *did* see the finest collection of morbidly obese Asian dudes EVER, and each one was carrying a perfectly unique pewter statuette of a a popular underaged anime princess that was, by my reckoning, 104% breasts.
Anyway, the truck's in the shop now, where a stout but affable dude in a jumpsuit laughed at me for a good ten minutes. "Man," he said, "that bucket made you a bitch!" Goodbye $433 and some-odd cents.
Seriously.
I was 13.
