I refrained from entering this scenario earlier in the blog, when it would have been more timely. As the story contains little humour and even fewer links, it seemed something to annoy my grandchildren with* and not fit for blogging.

However, thanks to a friend on my lunch hour, I now feel ready to share, as I did with him. The funny part’s at the end; stick with me through the boring bits.

* – My future grandchildren. The ones I have now are annoyed enough having to explain their existence.

A few weeks ago, on arguably the coldest day in Wisconsin this winter, I was to have dinner with Most Honoured Girlfriend and her mother at the Olive Garden in Janesville. As hellish as this may already sound, it does get worse.

Her mother calls us when we are in “the Garden’s” lobby to say that she has just dropped off her car at the nearby Farm and Fleet to have its tires replaced and could we come and pick her up? Certainly, we say, noting that there are almost no customers in the place anyway, and it would be an awfully cold walk over.

We wait outside the Farm and Fleet for a few moments, when she emerges. The Farm and Fleet can do nothing for her today, but her tires are dangerously low. There are many other places in the area, and it is not yet 5 o’clock. So, we make mad dashes from closed tire store to uncooperative dealer to closed tire store. Her front left tire is now flat. She cannot go further, nor can she get home with her car in such a state.

Annoyed, but valiant, I offer to put my spare on her car so that she can drive back to the Farm and Fleet, leave it there until morning, and we will drive her home following dinner and our plans in Janesville. Little did I know what awaited me.

I took out her jack and lifted the car gingerly off its injured foot. Like all men who ever lived, I idolize the dad in “A Christmas Story.” I’m all for equality, but I’m also all for the ladies to be in a warm, safe place while I work on automobiles and furnaces. It’s better for everyone. Still, deaf to my pleading, Most Honoured Girlfriend and her mother hanged on like hangers on and watched me. Aggressively.

As I began to remove the offending, limp, flaccid and altogether unmanly tire, Most Honoured Girlfriend pointed out that the jack, due to ice and position was beginning to bend. The jack, made apparently of cast iron, is bending. Under a Pontiac.

“Fair enough,” my mind says, while my mouth utters words that turn the snow pink, “Maybe it’s a weird angle. And it is cold out here.”

Cleverly, I think, I go and get my jack from my trunk. Same model jack, but I’ve used mine to lift several cars without incident. A few twists later and the bent jack is removed from under the car. I set about to taking down the tire, when a squeak and a crunch catch my attention from my immediate right.

I know full well what an engine can do to a man’s limbs. I jump back, instructing the curious eyes behind me to do the same, as teh car settles and bends the second jack neatly in half.

“Fuck!” and also, “FUCK!” Most Honoured Girlfriend and her mother set about the task of making me feel better. My new leather jacket is covered in road grime, my fingers numb as I open the car and instruct them to call a tow company for a real jack.

Relating this story to my friend this afternoon, I added, “What does Pontiac make their cars out of? Lead?” to which his reply will resound in my funny bone forever:

“It must be all the excitement.”