MERCMAN
02-20-2005, 01:42 PM
I was browsing the f150 forum and ran across this true(?) account. Heaven forbid this should happen to anyone here!!
Old guy puked, then urinated/defacated in my freaking truck.
I was taking a long-time friend of my grandfather (we'll call him Bill) to Sears today, so he could spend 4 hours buying a simple wooden hammer. This would also include a life story presentation in chronological order along with a WW II reenactment for every clerk and cashier. Driving Bill around was like having a huge piece of the Great Depression geriatric pie forced down your throat.
Bill: "I don't understand why you're driving so fast."
Me: "We're only going 35 MPH, dude."
Bill: "Just because the speed limit is 35 doesn't mean we have to drive 35, you know."
Me: "Ugh"
"Bill" lost his license 2 years ago, partially because he had 4 major accidents in a row, and had several tickets for driving too slow on the freeway, to include a 20 in a 60. Needless to say, Bill was a PITA, however I was doing this as a favor to my grandpa, so tolerance was required.
The gods were apparently angry today, because during the freeway portion of the trip, a overloaded scrap truck had a nice little blowout in front of us, and started to gyrate and throw nice little pipes, angle iron, and everything else that makes a good TOTALED insurance claim possible. Right in my path.,
Me: "OH SHI#! HANG THE FU(# ON!"
The kick down and the shrill whine of the Franken-Eaton filled the cab , and then came the high-g pull and a emergency lane change, rally style. Pieces were sliding latterly down the highway and you could hear squealing tires and the horrible sound of mass ownage by the load of junk hitting other unfortunate souls cars.
Bill: "GOD NO SLOW DOWN SLOW DOWN SLOW DOWN JESUS!"
Bill started to grab for the wheel.
Me: "Let me freaking drive, asshat!"
Bill was clearly scared out of his wits.
The danger was out-accelerated, and we were safe.
Bill didn't look so good.
He was making gurgling sounds, and was a nice shade of purple, and every vein in his head and throat was visible. Sweat coated him in thick sheets.
Bill: "Gwhaaabababababa"
Me: "Hang in there, I'm pulling over!"
Bill had enough. The first blast of puke came out like a shotgun, the rest of it was spewing all over the dash, and the floor board.
Me: "OH HELL NAW"
I came to an abrupt stop and bailed out to get him out of the car.
Too late.
By the time I pulled him out of the seat, urine was pooled up in the bucket, and shat was pouring out of his polyester ankle-high trousers. I made him sit down on the tailgate, while he was bark-coughing and still befouling the environment with crap stored since the 1930's.
Eventually, Bill was hauled away in a spare meat wagon that showed up for the carnage, fortunately there were no severe injuries, just really ugly car damage. Considering how the cab smelt after being covered in cess for a few hours in the 80 degree Houston heat, I should have just taken my lumps and had it taken to the auto-shop. I have it in a detailer's right now, they are going to have to pull the seats, carpet, and the dash to clean up the puke (funny thing is these guys claim to do this kind of work all the time) and the carpet/floor mats might just get replaced with a new black carpet rather than attempting a cleanup.
Bill was released from the hospital and threatened to sue me and my insurance company. My grandfather is considering beating his head in with a tire iron.
The moral of the story is: Sometimes old people are freaking lame and they suck goat butt.
Seriously, the moral of the story is: you may outrun the wreck but still get crapped on in the end .
Old guy puked, then urinated/defacated in my freaking truck.
I was taking a long-time friend of my grandfather (we'll call him Bill) to Sears today, so he could spend 4 hours buying a simple wooden hammer. This would also include a life story presentation in chronological order along with a WW II reenactment for every clerk and cashier. Driving Bill around was like having a huge piece of the Great Depression geriatric pie forced down your throat.
Bill: "I don't understand why you're driving so fast."
Me: "We're only going 35 MPH, dude."
Bill: "Just because the speed limit is 35 doesn't mean we have to drive 35, you know."
Me: "Ugh"
"Bill" lost his license 2 years ago, partially because he had 4 major accidents in a row, and had several tickets for driving too slow on the freeway, to include a 20 in a 60. Needless to say, Bill was a PITA, however I was doing this as a favor to my grandpa, so tolerance was required.
The gods were apparently angry today, because during the freeway portion of the trip, a overloaded scrap truck had a nice little blowout in front of us, and started to gyrate and throw nice little pipes, angle iron, and everything else that makes a good TOTALED insurance claim possible. Right in my path.,
Me: "OH SHI#! HANG THE FU(# ON!"
The kick down and the shrill whine of the Franken-Eaton filled the cab , and then came the high-g pull and a emergency lane change, rally style. Pieces were sliding latterly down the highway and you could hear squealing tires and the horrible sound of mass ownage by the load of junk hitting other unfortunate souls cars.
Bill: "GOD NO SLOW DOWN SLOW DOWN SLOW DOWN JESUS!"
Bill started to grab for the wheel.
Me: "Let me freaking drive, asshat!"
Bill was clearly scared out of his wits.
The danger was out-accelerated, and we were safe.
Bill didn't look so good.
He was making gurgling sounds, and was a nice shade of purple, and every vein in his head and throat was visible. Sweat coated him in thick sheets.
Bill: "Gwhaaabababababa"
Me: "Hang in there, I'm pulling over!"
Bill had enough. The first blast of puke came out like a shotgun, the rest of it was spewing all over the dash, and the floor board.
Me: "OH HELL NAW"
I came to an abrupt stop and bailed out to get him out of the car.
Too late.
By the time I pulled him out of the seat, urine was pooled up in the bucket, and shat was pouring out of his polyester ankle-high trousers. I made him sit down on the tailgate, while he was bark-coughing and still befouling the environment with crap stored since the 1930's.
Eventually, Bill was hauled away in a spare meat wagon that showed up for the carnage, fortunately there were no severe injuries, just really ugly car damage. Considering how the cab smelt after being covered in cess for a few hours in the 80 degree Houston heat, I should have just taken my lumps and had it taken to the auto-shop. I have it in a detailer's right now, they are going to have to pull the seats, carpet, and the dash to clean up the puke (funny thing is these guys claim to do this kind of work all the time) and the carpet/floor mats might just get replaced with a new black carpet rather than attempting a cleanup.
Bill was released from the hospital and threatened to sue me and my insurance company. My grandfather is considering beating his head in with a tire iron.
The moral of the story is: Sometimes old people are freaking lame and they suck goat butt.
Seriously, the moral of the story is: you may outrun the wreck but still get crapped on in the end .