I feel like charging the next modern day conquistador that crosses my path like a bull who caught wind of Susperia's blood splattered skivys. I'm coming back from Shoe Pavilion in Burbank, after a tedious treasure hunt over a pair of black shoes, which ended unsuccessfully. 10 minutes in to driving back to El Gay, my car begins to sputter like the lead singer of Dirty Chemist when he finds out his mother is making meatloaf for dinner. I assumed I had a flat, but figured I still had time to drive back to the city to have it changed by an illegal. As I pull up to Pepene's Tejano Tire Emporium, I am greeted by an Ecuadorian elf whose front teeth could ignite a second California gold rush. We examine the vehicle and it turns out it was not a flat, but the wheel well protector that prevents mud, rock, water and other elements from flying in to the engine. I had this shit fixed by another Tephauletcan aeons ago, but he, like all Mexicans, half assed the job. So I asked Paco and Chaco if they can just remove the plastic protector since they have the wheel off and I'll compensate them with a few pesos and a babel-fish pocket translator. The mojados refused to do it. Can you believe this shit?!!? They only fix tires. What the fuck?!? Mexicalians, I'm not going to report you to the better business bureau, that's the last agency that would even cross my mind if I wished to deal with you. Low and behold, I drive this soapbox up the hill and do it myself.
After completing that greasy task, I'm on the phone for the next 20 minutes with an automated AT&T operator to discuss my phone bill. Can I talk to someone who is alive and speaks English please!!!!
This is seriously, just the tip of the iceberg. Good God!
After completing that greasy task, I'm on the phone for the next 20 minutes with an automated AT&T operator to discuss my phone bill. Can I talk to someone who is alive and speaks English please!!!!
This is seriously, just the tip of the iceberg. Good God!
