Other things that a Ford Focus owner's manual is good for. (758 hits)
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Submitted by VodkaFace (View user info) at 2004-12-26 15:58:14 EST
Not long ago, I took a road trip with one of my good buddies. It was to be an affermation of all that was good and right with the young American way of life. My buddy and I had planned to go with our girlfriends from the worthless dirt-hole that is Central California, up to Seattle, Washington, spend some time there, and then drive back. We had figured out where all the campgrounds were along the way so we could break out our tents and get a little rest.
Wait, before I go on any further, let me be the one to tell you this from experience: if you take a road trip with three other friends, and the destination is further away than 15 minutes, do not, I repeat, DO NOT drive a Ford Focus. Not even the Wagon or hatch-back models. By the end of the first block, everyone will want to kill everyone else. Trust me, if friendship means anything to you at all, rent an SUV.
Unfortunately, we didn't know about this before we set about our journey, and so we found ourselves crammed in a little Ford Focus SE for what seemed like 30 bajillion light-years worth of U.S. Interstate-5.
The slap fights were *unbelievable*.
Between getting up to Seattle and back, we got pulled over 3 times, were issued two tickets and a warning, almost collided with other objects a total of 12 times and successfully hit some poor guy's mailbox. Most of this excitement was due to the slap fights, which, I am convinced would not have happened if we had had some forethought and rented a damn SUV. (An interesting aside, the only time we were pulled over and were not issued a ticket was the time my buddy's girlfriend drove. The state trooper was so enamored with her tubetop I don't think he even remembers what color the car was. Another good reason to travel with females.)
Seattle was great, saw the space needle, smoked a LOT of herb, went to some museums, smoked more herb, dropped by my cousins house and discovered that no matter how much pot you smoke, you cannot kill yourself via marijuana. It was all good and after a solid week of fun, we packed up and headed home.
On the way back from Seattle, I encountered a problem.
We were in the southern part of Oregon, about 70 some-odd miles from the California border. We had stopped in Roseburg about 40 miles back and gotten some food at a little diner. I forget the name but for some reason "Ed's Roadhouse Diarrhea" comes to mind. So we are travelling along, talking about how awesome it is to be stoned for a week solid in the city of Seattle when all of a sudden, I get a slight cramp in my lower abdomen. "Ouch," I think, "Must be a fart." So, as I am driving south on the I-5, I move my left hip up imperceptably, and let fly.
The term "Gambled and Lost" came flying up to meet me in the one dire moment where its meaning would be clearer to me than all the world's swimming pools. All my passengers screamed and yelled protests as I swerved right and took the small car from approximately 75 MPH to a rolling stop on the shoulder. I jumped out of the car and hopped behind a small group of trees to do my business.
I did my business.
I realized that in my haste to do my business, I had forgotten to grab anything to wipe my ass with. I looked around for a toilet paper tree, a Kleenex plant, even a pinecone, but nothing was within reach that I could use to clean myself up. I called to my buddy still waiting in the car.
"Chris, c'mere, I want to show you something."
(pause)
"What about the girls, can they see too?"
"No, just you man. Please come here." I'll never forget the look on Chris's face when he came around the trees to see me squatting in the middle of a small clearing, pants down around my ankles. Right in my immediate vicinity, it looked as if a practical joker had taken a bucket of brown paint and dumped the whole thing on the ground from approximately the same height as the top of the space needle. Chris stopped dead in his tracks and hid his face. He peeked out from behind his arm and dryheaved once into his flannel.
"You are a sick, nasty, demented fuck." Chris took a couple of measured steps backward.
"No, I need help. Go to the car and *please* get me something to wipe my ass. Please." After further pleading from me and impatient calls of "What the fuck's going on down there" from the girls in the car, Chris agreed to get me some asswipe. He vanished around the trees and I could hear him talking to the girls, although I couldn't make out what was being said. I could've guessed, however when I heard the girls laugh and squeal "OMIGOD!" Minutes later, Chris came trudging back into view.
"I couldn't find any toilet paper or napkins." he said "but I did bring you this." He held out a small book. A picture of my car was on the front. I balked at him. He balked back.
"Take it or leave it." He said. I took it.
Vehicle owner's manuals were never intended to be rubbed up against one's sphincter, as pages 1 through 72 so painfully proved to me. Pages 73 through 182 were used to wipe as much human detrius off of the back of my shoes as possible, leading me to believe Ford's owner's manuals would make an acceptable substitute for paper towels. Page 183, instructions on what to do before starting the vehicle, served quite nicely as a shit tampon, as it was lodged firmly between my underwear and my ass crack the entire remainder of the ride home.
The following week, I went into Ford's parts department to obtain a new copy of the owner's manual. As I stood at the counter, talking to a man who curiously enough was named "Blue" by his loving parents, and asking for a new copy of the manual, he began to chuckle.
"Well, we normally don't carry things like that, you would have to place an order with the printing office, but..." Blue leaned under the counter and produced a brand new oner's manual, still wrapped in plastic. "...luckily your buddy called in the other day and told me all about it. Took the liberty of ordering a new one for you."
I was not amused, but I was sure that Chris was extremely amused, as was Blue. He slid the manual across the counter at me, still smiling.
"After what you went through, this one's on the house."
I uttered my thanks, took the manual and left the store, intending to stop by Chris's house. I had realized one more use for the Ford Focus owner's manual, as a weapon.
User Reviews
Submitted by VodkaFace (user info) at 2004-12-27 01:25:56 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Haha, thanks.
Submitted by The_Walrus (user info) at 2004-12-27 00:07:31 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Because it's bringing your average down.