Monday, September 12, 2011

9/12/11 - Lessons in Escaping Death pt 12437 - The Exploding Flying Car

So we've learned some important lessons today, son. I'm going to sit here on what's left of this pricey Lexus, drink myself blind, and list them out for you.

Lesson Number One: When you get in your flying car after a couple days in orbit, check it before you drive it. And when SPYGOD says "check it," he does not mean put the little slidey-pop thing on the tires and have some fun with the dipstick. He means look all over for bugs, tracking devices, hitchhikers, and, most relevant in this case, !@#$ bombs.

Lesson Number Two: If you fail to heed lesson number one (like a certain !@#$head who will remain nameless right now while he gets drunk) and get the sense, while driving, that something is just a little off in the balance and performance, do not !@#$ chalk it up to it needing a trip to the garage. Pull the !@#$ over and check it the !@#$ out.

If you're still too stupid to take lesson number two to heart, then you are left with no one to blame when something unexpected happens in mid-flight. Normally, this would be something like an unexpected message in a CD in the player, or a surprise oral pleasuring from the Katooey hooker someone paid good money to tempt death by hiding in the back seat.

However, when the surprise is the car being engulfed in a giant !@#$ ball of fire, thirty stories up and halfway to the Bangkok Eight, we are led to Lesson Number Three: When in doubt, jump through the !@#$ windshield! That, at least, I did right.

Lesson Number Four: GTFAAFAYC! (Get The !@#$ Away As Fast As You Can). I didn't have any problem doing that, either, though the law of gravity helped a lot.

Unfortunately, we come to Lesson Number Five: if you're not on the ground, know how to fly. Under normal circumstances this would be SOP, as I usually have an anti-gravity pod in my belt. However, my belt is sitting back in my room, as, in my hurry to get my takeaway order and go cruise the other other meat market, I went without.

Lesson Number Six: If you can't fly, grab something that can. Well !@#$ that in the ear. Does this look that that movie where Indiana Jones kept getting his !@#$ handed to him by the shotgun hobo guy? No? Well do you see any other flying cars? No.

(And between you and me, pigeons do not handle being used as lifebuoys.)

Lesson Number Seven: If you can't grab something that can fly, grab something that isn't. Which leads us to the harsh reality concerning skyscraper-jumping heroes who lose their footing and have to reach out for something to break their fall, or at least something nice to fall into: comics are just full of !@#$.

Flagpoles? They snap.

Awnings? They tear.

Balconies? They !@#$ break your hands like they were made out of matzoh bread.

The smashed-in Lexus I'm sitting on right now? Painful. Very !@#$ painful. I think I broke every bone in my body, which meant that I wasn't able to get up and explain the situation to the concerned citizens who came out of their shops and restaurants to see where the "meteor" came down.

The good news is that, by the time I finished healing up, my poor flying car's self destruct mechanism did the right and noble thing. This means that all that weird-!@#$ alien weaponry under the hood will not be falling into anyone's hands, thank you very much.

The bad news is that I have just discovered that, along with my belt, I left my wallet at home. Not that I expect the police to give me any !@#$ about flying an exploding flying car without a license, but Bangkok Eight is ten minutes away and five minutes from closing up.

And I know better than to try and kick down the door and demand my !@#$ food. I do not need my !@#$ shot off by a former human smuggler with a shotgun for a leg. Not again, anyway.

So, hungry and broken, but still not dead, I will be requesting a full moment of silence for my poor, beloved flying car. It couldn't get me everywhere I needed to go, but it got me there in retro style, and seemed to smile when I melted people that didn't get out of our !@#$ way.

Good night, my sweet. Hail and farewell.

(SPYGOD is listening to Cars (Gary Numan, by way of Fear Factory) and having some Fireball cinnamon whiskey. Do NOT laugh)

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