What an A-Hole #3
So let’s see…
You now know that the World Domination Motor Car Tech School was just a “get together” for long lost co-workers, Pat was a complete buffoon, Randy Smith is just a TroubleMaker with Tools (and of course, TroubleMaker with Tools is the name of my new band…) and that I, as you should well know by now, am just an accident waiting to happen…
Randy was a trouble maker, is a trouble maker and will always be a trouble maker. Make a note of it, shout it to the world, carve it in stone, put it in the dictionary: RANDY SMITH = TROUBLE MAKER!!!!
You see before Randy Smith, I was just a wide eyed innocent young lad trying my best to keep to myself and fix cars the best way I knew h–
Sorry about that. God is not fond of fibbers. I think I’m getting old because I just can’t seem to dodge those damned lightening bolts like I used to… Well my eyebrows have grown back before, they’ll just have to do it again.
Anyway, as I was saying: Randy Smith = TROUBLEMAKER!!
As a couple of “for instances…”
There was the time we were working the Night Shift in Kearny Mesa (a suburb of San Diego, CA) at the infamous Mossy Nissan. We had been ripping into each other ever since he dumped an entire load of Nissan 240sx used, stinky, transmission gear oil into my pants. (And to think, 15 years later I have to PAY for this kinda thing…)
Seeing as how I out-weighed that toothpick by about 43-1, I was asked “Got a sec?” and, like an idiot, I agreed. When ask by Randy Smith, “got a sec?” most of the more intelligent or experienced techs (trust me they are NOT always the same thing) called their wives and said their last goodbyes, signed their Last Will and Testament, called their priest and got Final Absolution, and-
Well, I am sure you get the picture…
Anyway, since this paragon of auto repair facilities could not find it in it’s collective heart to cough up money for a transmission jack, we all pretty much used muscle power alone to remove transmissions. Not the best use of my superbly muscled physique, my shirt stretched tight against the mighty sinews of biceps and massive chest, my Adonis-like muscles rippling against -
Sorry, lightning.
Anyway, I asked Randy what the hell did he wanted this time. He said he needed help removing a transmission. My first automatic response was to call everyone I knew and say my farewells. Then something else occured to my addled brain:
Did you drain the trans?
Yup.
Randy, look at me. Did you drain the trans?
Uh-hunh!
Are you sure?
I said YES, gawd damnit!!!
Ok, Ok don’t get all Pat on me…
The thing about these transmissions is the fact that you have to turn them 90 degrees, after you have unbolted everything, to slide them out of the car. I usually did these by myself since 1) I was strong enough to and 2) because I was an idiot. The shifter is removed before the trans is unbolted and you have a nice LARGE hole in the top of the trans. After the bolts are removed, you let the trans hang down and let gravity help to turn it and then slide it out of the car in one smooth motion. So I offered to hold the middle of the trans (usually the heaviest point) and he could guide the front off of the engine and out from under the car. This particular tranny removal was smoother than most. In fact it went way beyound smooth and into slick…
This was because he had, in fact, not drained the gear oil that was in service for 100,000 miles. And as we let the back drop and twisted it, all that gooey slimey stinky gear oil, like a Tsunami, hit me just below the throat and continued unabated into my pants into which my shirt was securely tucked, down my legs, filtered through my socks and ended up on the floor around my shoes.
It was at this point that Randy took one look and in his infinite wisdom started to laugh and run away. I used considerable self control and an iron will to resist the urge to, in an “Arnie-like” moment, heave the transmission over my head and throw it at his retreating form. I would of course have had to say something like “Hey, you forgot this, you shifty bastard!!” right as he is squashed under the trans. Instead I am standing in a pool of gear oil, 200lbs of transmission on my shoulder, starting to steam where upon my ear mounted relief valves open releasing said steam and as they started to whistle shrilly, I heard someone shout “Hey!! Troy’s Done!!!!”
Assholes.
The problem was that I had to “dip” under the hoist the car was on to be able to walk over to the bench with this damned thing. Usually not an issue, but then again I was not usually standing in a pool of gear oil either!! Somehow I managed to do it and not tear every ligament in my body as I flawlessly pirouetted, performed several death spirals, a double toe loop, a flawless Lutz and finished strong with a high speed triple Axel before throwing the trans on the bench. Scores were 9.6, 9.5, 9.6, 9.7 and an 8.2 from those little Romanian Bastards…
Let’s just say that trying to contiue your shift while, uh, WELL LUBRICATED was not terribly pleasant.
Revenge was called for. And he showed up the next night in the form of my putting about 14 pounds of wheel weights on the right front tire of his car. If you have never had this done to you, well let’s just say it’s akin to surviving an 18.0 earthquake while trying to drive on the freeway… Ahhhh, good times.
Sadly this induced him to avenge himself by drawing quaint little logos on the windows of my car. The dew that is common near the coast collects on the windows of cars left out overnight and this provided Randy with a nice canvas for HIS revenge. Since I was bleary-eyed from working until 3am and just wanted a beer and bed, I took no notice of his handy work until I was on the freeway and glanced in the rear view mirror. I was astounded to see that he had written “Troy Sucks 4 Bucks!!” on the back glass, “Weenie Licker” on the driver’s side glass, and “Rump Ranger” on the passenger side…
I had just enough time to get really bent out of shape when I noticed a San Diego County Sherrif’s patrol car with 2 deputies looking and laughing at me as they drove along side on the freeway. It seems that Randy had not just drawn with his finger, but had first “lubed” it in oil so the water would not distort his literary masterpiece. Scrunching as low as I could, I tried in vain to ignore this latest assault while vowing ultimate revenge.
Did I mention that the Fates hate me?
The boys in the cruiser were wiping the tears of mirth out of their eyes and had slowed so as not to crash during their fit of laughing. As they sped up again, one of them noted that, yes, my tags had expired about a week before. So there went the lights and as I pulled over and started the routine “Driver’s License, Registration and proof of insurance” search, I called into question whether Randy’s parents were in fact married before he was born, the fact that he was sexual involved with his mother, had a cranial anal infarction and admited to the Deputy who was openly laughing at me, “You guys better take me in now, because I am going to kill that guy!!! It will be so gruesome and horrific that Hanibal Lector will puke on his shoes when he hears about it!!!”
Laughing all the while as they were writing the ticket, they also spotted a broke taillight lens (CHA-CHING!!), a loose mud flap (CHA-CHING!!), a crack in the windshield (CHA-CHING!!), and the fact that Randy mis-spelled “Weenie.” They both agreed it should be “Wheeny” whereas “Wheenie” would be more a subjective to the plural “Wheenies”…
Yes, they wrote me up for that, too!! (CHA-CHING!!)
So $3706.87 worth of ticket later I was let go…
Sobbing all the way home, I wracked my brain. This was an Armageddon Moment. I wanted ultimate revenge. I wanted this to be a moment that whole new religions were in fact based upon…
You know I really gotta stop putting this off… It’s dissing my street cred, dawg!