My car smells like beef. Not cheap like happy meal crushed into the carpet, but classy, like Michael Angelo walked into my garage, decided Sistine Chapel 2.0 was in order, and proceed to paint it in Au Jus all over the interior, complete with little, beef angels on my console. I suppose it sounds delicious in theory (those little trees that smell like pine, bananas, the troll doll your dog ate when you were five, are so passe'), but something about jumping in my vehicle and feeling like I'm trespassing on the set of CSI: Cow Sloughter Investigations, makes peeling out of my driveway less enjoyable. How's a person supposed to recreate Fast and the Furious if their car smells like french dip? Ummm...they can't. But that's what happens when you pay it forward..
Warning: There may be more shameless pop-culture references beyond this point. If you're not comfortable with this, please, read on..
It'd been a long night at work, and after a quick text discussion with Husband over where pirates were most likely to get fast food, I headed to Arbys, pulled in the vacant line and ordered two delicious French Dip combos.
Immersed in the highly technical art of flipping through my i Pod with my right hand and driving with my left, I rounded the concrete bend and parked in front of the window. After which, a somewhat questionable-looking Arby's representative stuck her head out of it and informed me that my curly fries would take "two minutes".
Ignoring my first instinct to climb through the window like a rhesus monkey and shout, "How are there no damn fries back there you inbred clowns? I'm tired and mamma wants some curly potatoes", instead my brain hit rewind and shot back twenty-four hours prior:
[Flashback Box: Husband returns home from a trip to the store. Sheepishly, he tells his wife that he rear ended someone on the way home...damn. But it's "okay" as the other driver shrugged it off and there wasn't any damage. Collective sighs of relief are had all around. I tell Bo Duke to be more careful. It may bear a striking resemblance, but this isn't Hazzard county.]
After reviewing said flashback and swatting visions of Haley Joel Osment shoving chalk drawings at people shouting. "What did you ever do to change the world?", I decided to be patient and wait...and wait..and wait..
Eight minutes later (which is two minutes times 4, by the way) I received hot fries, two French dips and a bag of Au Jus. Thanking the lady, I hit the gas, grabbed the bag I thought was the fries, and set it in my lap. It smelled great, and provided me with the comfortable feeling of having just peed my pants...
While I'd been busy reflecting on how I was going to change the world, the designated Au Jus dipper-outter had forgotten to put the lid on my container. It was everywhere. Sure, when I drove back around to get a replacement, the lady was apologetic, but that didn't stop me from looking like Swamp Monster from Planet Beef Lake...
"It looks like I peed myself", I laughed to the girl.
Something is so wrong with me...
This weekend is damage control. I'll be scrubbing the seats, the console, and everything else that could attract mice, werewolves, or livestock looking for a long-lost relative. That, and if anyone notices me licking my steering wheel, there could be problems...
Until Next Time Readers!