ieggedyourlexus.blogspot.com

On a sidenote, tonight in the grocery store parking lot I witnessed a display of self-centeredness so gross that I think it merits its own post. The driver of a Lexus RX300 presumed that the rest of the us, we world-weary parking-lot crutlins, would be in such awe of his vehicular majesty that we would move ourselves out of his way as he backed out of his parking spot.

As I was situated perpendicular to this Lexus with no one behind me, this involved putting my car into reverse, in order to avoid the impending slow-motion collision bred from arrogance and idiocy. I kept backing up, and he kept backing out. I gave, he took. And then, a honk. Another car had arrived behind me, a black one, with dim lights, moving forward. Three cars converging, and there I was, caught between one idiot with an ever-inflating head and another idiot, clinging stubbornly to normalcy in the face of frank self-importance and presumption. The latter idiot, though impractical, had it right: this was the way things ought to be. Cars going foward continue to go forward; out-backers, even Lexuses, wait.

This made me mad, mad enough to consider vengeance by egging. What would have happened, I wonder, if I had not caved under Mr. Lexus' pressure? Would he have rammed my car? He might have honked, loudly. He might have had an expensive gun in that fancy car, and might have shot me with an expensive bullet, and that would have been bad.

One thing I've noticed is that when faced with illogical behavior, the nice guy always loses. Historically, this is how idiots have gotten away with being idiots. The rest of us don't know how to react. We get flustered, baffled, confused; we acquiesce before we even think to challenge. At least I did tonight. But really, I don't exactly advocate sticking up for yourself, because you might get shot. Sometimes idiots are strangers, unstable and possibly dangerous. Instead I will content myself with taking a deep breath, swearing profusely, winding up my throwing arm and lobbing that imaginary chicken-egg at every arrogant dumbfucker in a Lexus who thinks to muscle his or her way into my path. The satisfaction will be finite, but you know what? Logic will be on my side.

Squeegees, a carwash, and the persistence of egg yolk on a finished surface

Redacted. --Ed.
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Many a week has passed since the events detailed above. Having shirked my update-related responsibilities long enough, I assembled a recap of the momentous de-egging of my Toyota Corolla. It follows.

Stage One: The BP Squeegee
Nothing brings out the color in your paint job like fluorescent lights and the murky glowing mystery of gas station squeegee fluid. On Monday morning, I drove my egg-streaked Scooter down route 55 to my job at Argonne Labs, a 30 minute drive at something like 70 mph. Upon exiting the vehicle, I saw that the yolk streaked along the top of my car had been whipped into a streamlined froth; there were egg-bubbles on my car, and they were leeeeeaning back. Enjoying the sunshine. Also, bits of eggshell were stuck on the paint, and these made me anxious. Something had to be done.

After work, I drove directly to a gas station. A two-stage attack had been planned: First, I would manually loosen the shell debris and solidified yolk streaks as well as was possible with a courtesy squeegee. Then, I would drive my buddy through the automatic carwash to remove whatever eggstuff that was left.

My coworker/superior, Thomas, assisted me with Stage One. Together we spent approximately ten minutes in the cold night air, slopping blue-green squeegee fluid onto my car under the bright fluorescent lights of the BP. I took a moment to admire the effect: as I mentioned before, nothing has ever brought out that deep bright blue like those glaring lights and mystery fluid did. However, we did little to nothing in the way of clearing the egg debris. Thomas insisted that a slow coaxing motion would loosen anything given time (such was his faith in the Squeegee), but as our fingers began to stiffen with cold, win or lose, it was time to move on.

Stage Two: Workin' at the Carwash (Yeah)
Never will anything, aside from the beatles' song itself, evoke the words "magical" and "mystery" as strongly as the BP automatic carwash did that night. The magic was all beeps and whirring; rocking, thumping, fwap-fwap-fwapping; wonder and joy resurfaced from my childhood memory-cistern and ran rampant as I stared, exclaimed, sat back, in awe of simple automation running in an everyday application. Then I recalled myself, and the mystery stepped in. The mystery was how all this whirring and fwapping and powerblowing was supposed to remove any eggshit from my car. I was intrigued, incredulous, and ultimately disappointed. The carwash did not help; if anything, it smeared yolk around and made my tires look like they had been doused with milk. Alas. But the ride itself was worth the $5.

Anyway, it's late. An account of my triumph over yolk and shell will follow soon, but not tonight. Slumber beckons.

*sorry, I love EM Forster, and also plagiarism.

Step 2: Talk about it.

It's never good to keep things bottled up. Having entertained suspicions that the car-egger was a young resident of my own apartment building, I decided to broach the general subject of car-egging with my building-mates. I would do this in the form of a note, posted in the entrance:

Dear All,

It seems that a great monster chicken projectile-ovulated in our parking lot this weekend. Please be careful; chickens can be dangerous.

If nothing else, it would entertain the innocent; if luck were on my side, it would provoke the culprit into repeating his mistake. In the latter case, I'd have a reason to speak with the suspect's guardian about eggs: how they should not be airborne, how they should not be airborne in the vicinity of my car. How he should discuss these guidelines with his charge. If it had no effect, at least I would have opened a dialogue.

To bring us closer to the present tense, now that we are mired in tricky verb agreements: I have posted this note inside the entrance to the building. I have opened the dialogue. Now we can only wait. Now we are waiting. Now we will wait. Ooh.

Alright kids, rage all addressed for the night. Will update as soon as there are developments.

Step 1: Sweat it out.

First step towards addressing internal angst: Hit the gym, sweat it out, think it over. So I bobbed my way through 4,328 elliptical strides, 38 minutes of inordinate rage. One question rang in my oxygen-deprived brain. Why egg my car? Five sedans are routinely parked in a private lot behind my apartment building. None of them are fancy or expensive. Why egg my blue Corolla?

Possible reason #1: Beef
Do I have beef with people? This is intriguing; I don't know anyone in this city.

Possible reason #2: Metaphysical
Some crazy fucker realized that the world didn't fit. Nothing made sense, people were suffering, existence, causality, truth collided and converged into glorious and terrifying reality. The unapologetic chaos that rang throughout the universe made this fucker profoundly uneasy--but somehow it would be more right if there were eggshit on my car. That's why he did it.

Possible reason #3: Senseless act of vandalism
This seems most likely. Some juvey dipshit thought he'd have fun on a Saturday night, and sad as I am to admit it, I was probably the only one who stayed in all weekend. See #1.

Having settled on #3, I sorted through the candidates for juvey dipshit of the week. Two possibilities: a broad category of unknown miscreants, or the 'troubled' kid who lives across the hall. I hatched a plan to disciminate between the two, and thus began phase two of my quest for blazing vengeance.

You egged my Corolla. And now I've started a blog about it.

As I unlocked the doors to my Toyota Corolla this evening, I noticed a large quantity of broken eggshell and egg yolk frozen onto the exterior of my car. Preliminary ballistic analysis revealed that 5 or 6 eggs had been thrown from the west-southwest; egg remnants had solidified upon the roof, passenger side, and trunk of my vehicle.

You heiny motherfuckers egged my Corolla. And now I've started a blog about it.

First, a list of questions.
(1) Do I know you?
(2) What? It's a Toyota Corolla.
(3) Would you prefer a hockey stick or a hoola hoop up your ass, because I have both, and I am coming to get you.

Since I don't know where you are, I will settle for metaphysical revenge tonight. I have a lot of rage, and I intend to address it. Address it till you cry and scream for mercy, motherfuckers. That's right, watch yourselves.