I have written here, here and here about the horrors of taking the Big, Fat, Black Capitalist Car to the dealer for service. I should note that the Big, Fat, Black Capitalist Car is decidedly American, and the dealership runs by what I can only assume to be American standards.

I recently took Mrs. Parkway’s car to the selling dealership for service. The car is a bit more than one-year old and still doesn’t have 5,000 miles on it, but it was definitely time for an oil change and whatever else is regularly done, service-wise, at 5,000 miles. I should note here that Mrs. Parkway’s car is of the Japanese persuasion.

I was somewhat nervous with the prospect of becoming a supplicant to yet another Service Area of a dealership. As it turns out, there was quite a difference between this Service Area and that I have become accustomed to.

When I called for an appointment, I was not told, “Bring it in any time on X day.” Instead, after being asked what time of day I would like to come in for service and having indicated a preference for mornings, I was told, “Our next opening is for June X, at 7:45 a.m. Will that be OK?”

I thought, Holy crap! This is like making a Doctor’s appointment.

I was told that I had been assigned to “Joe on the Blue Team.” This too was strange to me, having been accustomed to standing with the other supplicants at the Service Area counter, waiting for someone to pay attention to me.

I made it to the dealership exactly at the appointed time. When getting service on the Big, Fat, Black Capitalist Car, I would have to spend several minutes trying to find a parking space in the lot, which has more craters in it than did the Battlefield of Verdun. By contrast, when I pulled up to the Japanese persuasion dealership, I saw that there was “valet parking.” (Holy Crap!)

The valet guy said, “Do you have an appointment sir?” When I answered that I did have an appointment, he placed a paper mat on the car’s floor and handed me a slip of paper that contained my plate number and mileage. He wished me a nice day and took the car away. I was getting lightheaded by this time.

I walked into the “Reception Area,” a nicely appointed room with several people, organized by their team colors, sitting at the ready to do the necessary intake. I proceeded to the “Blue” guy who verified my appointment and took down my information, including my desire to wait while the car was being serviced.

He pointed me to the stairs, which led to the upstairs waiting room. I had visions of the cramped waiting room at the Big, Fat, Black Capitalist Car dealership, and I prepared myself for the worst.

I was pleasantly surprised to see that the room was large and well lit. It contained a coffee machine (one that grinds the beans before it makes the coffee), which offered a wide array of coffee choices – free, of course. There were also an ample supply of Dunkin’ Donuts on hand. The room contained numerous copies of the latest newspapers and a slew of recent magazines.

There was, of course, the obligatory television, but it was an impressive large, wall-mounted flat screen number. What really slayed me was the “Children’s Corner.” The Children’s Corner is a separate small room (separated from the Waiting Room by a door) full of things for children to play with to keep them from becoming fidgety from just sitting around.

The best thing was the “Quiet Room.” Yes, a “Quiet Room.” You could have knocked me over with a feather. I hope that when the person who had the “Quiet Room” idea finally throws the sixes, he or she will rocket directly to Heaven at warp speed. The Quiet Room contained a couple easy chairs and about a half-dozen carrels, much like one sees in libraries, each equipped with internet connections. Genius, I tell you. Pure genius.

I think it fair to say that the Dealership did everything reasonably possible to make waiting for one’s car as painless as possible.

Of course, there was some bad news.

For example, like the Big, Fat, Black Capitalist Car Dealership , the Japanese Persuasion Dealership has its share of cell-phone blabbing morons. One woman took off her shoes, tucked her bare feet under her ass on the couch in the Waiting Room and loudly talked and giggled non-stop on her goddamned cell phone, and she did it in a foreign language (It sounded like a dialect spoken somewhere near Calcutta).

In addition, as I mentioned, there is also a television, which almost certainly guarantees an earful of annoying nonsense. On the day in question, the Morning Show featured some nineteen-year old woman dressed something like the people that the Starship Enterprise might encounter might wear “singing” her shit, which included what she indicated was the “Number One song in America today.” It had something to do with an Umbrella. On the Auditory Assault Scale, this piece of shit scored a solid TEN.

Between the Calcutta Phone Talker and the horrendous television spacewoman’s “singing,” I retreated to the Quiet Room.

There was about a half dozen people in the Quiet Room, including one woman working on her laptop in the carrel opposite mine. We were isolated from the Calcutta Phone Talker and the screeching spacewoman – it was sweet.

But then, just when I thought I had arrived in Dealership Heaven, the woman on the computer must have called her company Help Desk on her cell phone. I couldn’t believe it. In an otherwise dead-silent room, I was treated to something like the following:

Would that be under “Tools?”

It says, “Temporary Files,” and it is asking me if I want to delete them? Should I click “yes?”

It says, Internet Explorer, but it asks for my password.

Yes, I entered my password, but it wouldn’t work.

Yes, I entered [the woman shared her password with everyone in the Quiet Room!], and it still didn’t work. Should I try a new password? How about [Now, we all knew her new password!]?

OK, I see it now. Should I click “OK”?

This went on for ten minutes or so. I was hoping she would not treat us to a download of a new goddamned operating system.

After about another 15 minutes a voice came over the intercom informing me to return to the Service Desk as Mrs. Parkway’s car was done.

All this proved to me that, despite best efforts to make waiting for car to be serviced as comfortable as possible, one can always rely on douche bags showing up to shit things up.

Perhaps the Japanese Persuasion Dealership needs a Harakiri Room.

Regrettably, most peeps’ experience of the Garden State is the smelly, industrial and tank farm shithole that borders the New Jersey Turnpike in the vicinity of Newark Airport. New Jersey is the most densely populated state in the Union, and for those of us who live in the Northeastern part of the state, “wildlife” consists of squirrels, a rabbit or two and the occasional possum (which sends people into a state of apoplexy).

By contrast, in other parts of the state (all of which are a short drive away – depending on traffic, of course) are a regular farookin’ wild kingdom.

I’ve written extensively about the politics of the problems with black bears in New Jersey (I’m too lazy to chase down the links – use the search box for “bears”), but who would have thought we would have a farookin’ coyote problem?

It’s true. Coyotes in Jersey. Who knew?

It’s a real problem. Seems that a coyote badly bit a five-year old in the head and tried to gobble up a 22-month old – all in a town that is a scant forty miles from New York City.

A local cops tried to shoot one with his sidearm, but missed. Shooting the varmints in Jersey poses a special problem, given the density of the population in the places where the animals have been seen (even in North Jersey – Oy!). A rifle shot will certainly cross about a dozen property lines and may well find its way into someone’s sorry ass while he’s in the yard reading the newspaper. As such, the state Department of Environmental Protection (“DEP”) has arranged for people who actually know how to shoot to use night vision gear to try to plug the coyotes without shooting any peeps.

At the same time, the Head of the DEP (a Governor Jon “Speedy” Corzine moonbat appointee) stated, “We will do more to educate residents about coyotes so we can replace fear with facts.” Well, isn’t that precious? Tell that to the parents of the mauled kid.

Oh, and speaking of bears, the other day, the DEP authorized the shooting of one that actually broke into a home.

Farookin’ bears? Farookin’ coyotes? In Jersey?

I knew I should have bought myself a cowboy hat while I was in Texas a month ago.

I’ve decided that it’s about time that I foul Elisson’s nest again. I figure this is the last time I’ll be getting the keys to the joint.

I wonder if you were to ask one hundred randomly selected Americans under 30 years old what event of historic significance took place on June 6, 1944 how many would answer correctly. I’d bet that fewer than 25 would know the answer, which would be very sad.

Rather than being disappointed by the answers, maybe it’s better just not to ask.

During our vacation, we went here one morning in an effort to escape the swarms of farookin’ Love Bugs, which seemed to have a particular fondness for the place where we were staying.

As we drove into the State Park, the Ranger handed us a brochure, which said something like, “Do not feed the animals in the park, including the alligators.”

Jimbo: “SAY WHAT?? Alli-farookin’gators? Turn this goddamned car around!”

The Usual Suspects took great delight at my shitting in my pants simply as a result of reading the brochure. On we went.

As we checked out the various roads in the park, I wondered where alligators might lurk. It took about three minutes to find these Evergladely like stream things with dense growth right up to the water’s edge on both sides. “Alligator City,” without a doubt.

One such road led directly to a bank of one of the Evergladey stream things on which were canoes and kayaks that one could rent. At the place where the water meets the ground was a sign that said, “No Swimming. Alligators present.”

No Swimming? NO SHIT!

To me, “swimming” includes what one’s sorry ass has to do once a canoe or a kayak capsizes in that stinking Evergladey water. I’ve never been in a kayak, but I have been in canoes, and those suckers flip over if you sneeze wrong.

I want to know who are the nimrods who would rent (i.e. PAY to use) a canoe or a kayak and shove off from the place where you have been clearly warned that “swimming” might turn you into alligator lunch?

Crazy bastards!

Tomorrow is New Jersey’s Primary for state and local elections. Here’s the story in my district.

On the Democrat side, all the candidates (all of whom are incumbents) are running unopposed.

On the Republican side, no petitions were filed for several offices, meaning the Democrats will run unopposed for those offices in November. For those few offices for which a Republican desires to run in November, there is just that – one Republican.

Hell, in my district, it’s hard enough to find one Republican, let alone two, who are willing to go through the motions of running for office, only to be slaughtered in November by the Democrat Sheeple vote.

That all adds up to this primary being a waste of time and a huge waste of all that paper that was used to print out thousands of bilingual sample ballots.

It’s all quite depressing.

Due to a set of circumstances that would not interest the masses, it seems that Ken (my friend and bodyguard) and I will have to handle the Sunday Services pool bobbing and beer drinking at his house by ourselves today. The beer is ice cold, and the pool is crystal clear and comfortably heated. I’ll be bringing hot dogs made by the local German butcher.

Tough duty, but someone’s gotta do it.

Before leaving for vacation, Blogger Extraordinaire Elisson graced me with a set of keys to his place to shit up his site guest post while he is away lounging on some beach with his most charming spouse. I was honored to be gifted with a set of keys from a guy who is an extremely talented writer and who has an inexhaustible supply of creativity.

I was doubly honored when I saw the other bloggers Elisson entrusted his place to. I am in the company of Velociman, Treppenwitz, our favorite Straight White Guy, and Erica, the Smartass Brooklyn Jooette, who has a demonstrated stellar track record for really shitting up people’s blogs while they’re away guest posting.. Pretty heavy-duty group there.

I’ve already tossed a turd into the Blog d’Elisson, and I hope to leave a few more droppings over there during the week. So, if I don’t appear here, you may well find my silly musings over there.

Speaking of Elisson, did I mention that he is a wonderfully talented and creative writer? I believe I did. But, I did not mention that he has managed to do what many bloggers only dream of doing. He has gotten a book published. No kidding. It’s a real, honest-to-goodness book. As the title states, it is a collection of 100 of Elisson’s amazing 100-word stories. You can order your copy at Amazon.com, which is seriously cool. So, go buy one already!

Some people seek undersea treasures, while others take joy in spending their lives digging for a rare archaeological artifact. The more adventuresome travel the globe looking for the perfect wave. Not my cup of tea, that. For me, one of the finer moments in life comes with discovering yet another excellent alcoholic beverage.

Of course, I have no shot at appearing in National Geographic Magazine, but I’d sooner sample booze than drown in a sunken ship, revel in finding some caveman caca, or getting the shit knocked out of me by the Bonsai Pipeline.

My most recent find is Finlandia Mango Infused Vodka.

It boasts the perfect mix of vodka and tropical fruit, which is to say it’s a bit more vodka than fruit. I’ve always been a fan of Finlandia vodka, which is made from glacial spring water, so when I saw the Mango Infusion variety, it was a Must Buy.

It is easy to imagine a few creative cocktails that could be made with the stuff, and it is easy to find actual recipes for the limp-wristed drinker. I prefer it straight, directly from the freezer, or directly from the freezer poured over ice (one always uses clear ice).

If you’re in the market for a most pleasant summer booze treat, I recommend it highly. But, a word of caution. Don’t be lulled into the “Oooh, this is delicious” trap, because the mango is infused into 80 proof Whoopass.

Thank me, very much.