So... when you get poor... and repairs eat up the money you've not yet made faster than you can make it... those things that can be postponed.... Guess What? They get... Post - Poned!
Uh huh. Maintenance falls pretty low on the priority scale.. Now generally... that doesn't really get your shorts in a quiver... unless of course you're sitting on an airplane... owned by a company in financial distress!
So, there you are, rich in visions... but poor in assets. As in... the truck your ass sets in.
Now... you're rolling into a lil' burg... and the truck goes BURP! WHEEZZZZEEEE UPUCKFLURPEEWHUMP! .... all over the space of 'bout 3 seconds...
It stumbles... and then... the CHECK ENGINE light illuminates and you say; awwwww CuuuuuuuRRRAPPPPPP!
Buuuuuuuut there's no place to pull off, so for a mile or three you keep movin, your eyes jumpin' all over the dash, trying to find something wrong...
It rolls on down the road until you can find a spot along the narrow way to pull over and check, all the while your liver is doin' a tap dance on your kidneys...
You look, and hunt and search only to find nothing wrong... or at least, nothing you can find with a look and a wish with the hood up on the side of the road waiting for some yuppie in a duramax to holler; GET A CHEVY!
Soooooo... you can holler back; So I can park the lump of GM fertilizer LIKE A ROCK?
Well, frustrated in your recon under the hood... you roll on the 15 miles to your next camp... with the CHECK ENGINE light! making your shorts a bio waste hazard...
Buuuuuuuuut everything runs just like it should... alternator, fuel pressure, oil pressure, engine temp... outside air temp... the ONLY thing wrong is your pulse, that nasty smell spreading through the cab annnnnnd... the twisting squirming lump in your gut.
... and you park...
... you get camp set up... while thinking all the while about all the myriad of things that could trigger the EVIL CHECK ENGINE light...and how many zero's are gonna follow along behind the part number of that lil' jewel.
sooooo... you sit in your fading but not yet failed folding chair trying to find a shuttle to take herself to the Airport, 80 something miles away tomorrow afternoon so you can spend the next two weeks figuring your way out of the most recent hole that's opened up under your beer bottle...
... and then you think... well... maybe it could have been... The FUEL FILTER! That's overdue!... and you hunt up an Oil Can Henry's just down the road... 'cause changing the oil in camp is a nasty, greasy, menial job best left to those without the masculine beauty and sensual adonis traits of ethiopian bellied, bald headed onetime Cowboy, Bikers.
Now... you rob that poor motherless son Peter to pay Paul... one more time... only this time he had to take out a loan 'cause you already robbed him of the next two years tax returns...
... and you go on down there to change the oil and the fuel filter... which... due to that pri-ohr-uh-ti-za-shun scandal mentioned above... hasn't been done since... oh well... never mind that...
So... you're sitting there in the cab and you hear this noise. It's the sound a minimum wage Oil Can Henry em-ploy-eeee makes when they find something some uncaring, useless Dodge mutilator has done to a fine machine.
He was uttering one of those Poh-Lit-I-cully impolite uses of a fellas name. Uh HUH... THAT fella. The one that some are terribly fearful of...
uh HUH... He'd found the AIR FILTER!
I didn't know they had a button for such things at just another variety of a lube shop. But they do. The echoes in that lil' building still have my ears ringin' from when he hit the EMERGENCY EVACUATION button...
Alert! RED ALERT!
This machine is about to BLOW!
Do not walk. Do not hesitate! Run for the exits.
RUN WHILE YOU STILL CAN!
RRRRRRRRRRR---- UNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN !!! NOOOOWWWWWWWWWW !!!!
I would have taken a picture of said Air Filter... but it was seized by armed FEMA agents and passed on to Homeland Security to be investigated as a Home grown weapon of mass destruction.
To give you an idea of it's appearance... think of the sourest prude of a celibate old puckered up, double dipped, triple rectified Victorian 89 year old virginal Librarian you can think of; and take a picture of her the instant she bites into the most bitterest lemon you can find while flashing her a picture of a gangbanger with his jeans hanging half down his butt...
Uh Huh... that air filter was... uh... bad... :'( to put it into one word... Plumb Shameful. Well sue me! You can't PUT it in one word!
Well, now that abused, tortured and maligned GOOD TRUCK from DODGE is sitting out there in this new camp with clean oil, a fresh fuel filter... and no longer crying... aiiiirrrrrrrr.... i neeeeeeed aiiirrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
The moral of this story is... Take care of your machinery, one way or the other... 'cause you just can't count on it having the guts to keep moving you like I wrung out of this'un.
Chastised and Hew-Milly-eighted