Friday: I was driving home from w**k, dodging chuck-holes and puddles and cursing the rain, with a SUV sniffing up my tailpipe, when the engine* started acting loopy. Familiar with the foibles of my humble little rice-burner, I surmised that the ignition system failed again. No problemo. Another distributor cap (it has this flimsy little spring-loaded carbon electrode that contacts the HV terminal on the ignition controller), a rotor, a half hour's work, and we're back on the road again.

I must admit, Luddite that I am, that this is one instance when a Crackberry is good to have. You might well arsk, what is a Luddite doing with a Crackberry?

Managlement hath decreed that the peons in the IT department carry a minimum of two leashes. One of the Big Spenders in Managlement decided it would be a splendid display of 'generosity to the peons', as well as a good way to get their own fancy mobile at employer's expense. Plus, it's a way for Managlement to keep track of the peons. I discovered that the C-berry has a GPS function which is programmed to respond to remote query. There is also a button electrode that reads blood chemistry through the holder's skin. I defeat this onerous overseer by lurking in dank cellars, beyond the reach of microwaves.

Anyway, using my Crackberry for my own benefit (for once) I obtained my GPS coordinates and uploaded them to my son's website with a high-priority marker. He spammed me back with his ETA. Within a half hour, he drove up, launched an empty vodka bottle at my head, cursed me for interrupting his project, and commenced to drive away.

Luckily, my Crackberry was fully charged, so I activated the electromagnet feature, which allowed me to cling to his trunk* for the ride home.

My car sat forlorn on the side of the road, along the route the migrant construction workers take on their Saturday pilgrimage to the landfill....

Saturday morning, I fried my son's computer by isolating the neutral to his circuit and applying an extra 120V (I took out a couple televisions too, but that's alright, I don't watch the bleeping things). I love payback.

I then engaged the somewhat vacant attention of GuyOnTheCouch, and asked him, in lieu of couch rent for the week, for his help getting my car home. He has a pick-em-up-truck with a tow hitch (and much experience towing my car in from the boonies). He said OK, he just has to remember wherever it was he left his truck last night...somewhere in town, he reckons. With a little help from DudeOnTheOtherCouch he remembers, and they set off together.

Two hours later, he phones to tell me they were abducted by a beer keg alien, and he was in no shape to drive. Sunday, then....

Sunday: A vain search for my tow-strap. Deep interrogation of all living bodies in the house. It turns out that my other son's girlfriend's girlfriend Trixie took the strap for some 'scene' thing she was working on.

GuyOnTheCouch was mostly vertical, so we proceeded to the local toolheads' emporium for another strap, and thenceforth into the boonies.

Guy showed me a trick on the way: when he pressed the brake pedal, a huge cloud of thick white smoke gushed out of the tailpipe. The truck didn't slow down. He then engaged the parking brake, and both our heads contributed to the collection of cracks on his windshield.

Guy mumbled something about flashbacks from his childhood in Oklahoma. I mentioned that it only gave me double vision for a minute.

I massaged a nodule on my brain with my third right tentacle and my vision reverted to quadruple. I must remember that cool cloud-of-smoke trick for the next SUV that wants to park in my trunk.

We decide that the braking power of the humble little rice-burner is sufficient to stop two tons of Detroit pig iron. I performed my usual knotwork magic, secured the two vehicles together, and we were off.

We managed to stay on the road (I was occasionally enveloped by a poot of stinking white smoke) and I managed to stop us halfway through the first intersection.

Cool thing is, nobody gets road-rage at a towed vehicle. (Like, if you diss a disabled vehicle, yours will be next. Except for Hummers*. Most folks will make it a point to stop and heckle dead Hummers.) We took advantage of that and blithely cruised through subsequent red lights, pooting out gorgeous white smokescreens for the cameras.

Home at last, safe and sound. I wouldn't start work on it yet. I had better things to do Sunday, like lurking the blogs, proofing a friend's story, stealing cigarettes from my sons.

Monday: Called the absence number at w**k, claiming family time. Drank much coffee. Raised the hood*.

Spent ten minutes performing the obligatory ritual malediction on all Oriental automotive engineers.

Removed the distributor cap. Found an unscrewed screw in the bottom shell of the distributor housing. Promptly dropped it deeper within the engine compartment. Figured out where it originated (the distributor rotor).

Took a break.

Returned with magnet and haemostat. Recovered the screw, and dropped it a few more times for good luck. Violated two city ordnances* and the law of gravity to re-attach it. Reassembled distributor and proceeded to the Moment of Truth.

Crankcrankhummmmm.

Yesss.

The rain waited until I had finished. Life is good.