"They wouldn't arrest me if we got boarded. I'm just the pilot. I could always say that I was flying the ship by accident." - Wash, Firefly

 

Pugsley attempts to make good on his scheme to make millions by stealing sand from the beaches at Galveston, only to later discover that he can fit only so much in his pail.

I remember being ten and hearing the line, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” I think I heard it on Monday Night Football®.

I felt that the author was fairly noncommittal. I mean, was it the best of times, as in all the hot chicks I could do, well, whatever it was that a ten year old would do with hot chicks? Was it the worst of times, as in your mother walking in while you tried to figure out what, exactly you were doing?

Really, you have to pick one. Best of times or worst of times. Karate yes, karate no. No karate maybe.

Last week I was driving home from work, late, uncaffeinated, tired. The road was wetter (than usual) and I looked to see if I could merge into the oncoming traffic. Looking forward, yeah, one guy sitting there, but there was a gap in traffic the size of Paris Hilton’s ego. He’d be gone. Look back, gap still there. Look forward, guy . . . . STILL THERE.

No problem. That’s why cars have brakes, right? Ooops. The rain made the concrete slippery enough that my treads could find no purchase.

Hit him. Smack. I watched my air bag (useless as a microwave popcorn bag at this point) deploy.

It’s interesting how time compresses in situations like that – it must be similar to spending time with Tom Cruise. Oh, sure it was only five minutes, but it seemed like an eternity. In this case I saw the air bag unfurl, and certainly felt the painfully hot exhaust gasses giving my forearms unneeded second-degree burns, all in the name of safety.

I got out of the car and made sure that the other guy was okay. He was. We pulled over and waited for a cop. By the time (two hours later) one arrived, he looked like Grant Imahara (the guy who’s not Adam or Jamie from Mythbusters©), and was as cool as one of the cops from the movie, “Superbad.” He looked at our cars and told me, “Alright, Mr., umm, McLovin, get on out of here.”

I drove home, and upon parking, noticed the steam emanating from the engine compartment After opening the hood, I watched as boiling hot ethylene glycol poured onto the concrete from the radiator. Great.

I got home, and told The Mrs. about my adventures in turning plastic and metal into twisted plastic and metal. I checked e-mail, primarily because I keep wondering if anyone will ever make me a millionaire through a questionable financial transaction from Nigeria or if someone will offer me inexpensive Viagra®.

I saw an e-mail for The Mrs. from a publisher. It was unopened. The Mrs. was studiously working on yet another novel not twenty feet from me. I clicked the “open” button on the e-mail.

The e-mail noted that, despite being a novel that they normally would never buy, they wanted to send The Mrs. a contract on her latest (finished, not the one she was typing on) novel. Because it was rockin’ good.

I said, “Honey come here and look at this.”

“Not now. I’m busy.”

“No, really, come here and take a look at this.”

The Mrs. grudgingly got up from her computer and wandered over to look at the e-mail on my screen.

First: disbelief.

Second: A little “happy” dance.

Third: “I need a beer.”

So, best of times and worst of times, indeed. More best than worst, though.