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I had occasion recently to adjust the valves on PD (see previous post in re “nut size”). Assisting me was my brother-in-law, a man familiar with all things automotive (and electrical and various other things that I don’t understand and which don’t warrant mention here).
I opened the hood (for Keith: bonnet) and took a position on the starboard side, my brother-in-law to port (he’s retired Navy, so just go with it). We’d decided to remove the spark plugs to facilitate engine revolutioning as part of the mysterious valve adjustment procedure. He had removed plugs 1 through 4, plug #4 still in his hand.
Looking up, I noticed he was wearing some sort of sartorially questionable britches, perhaps throw-back denims from his Navy days, which had strange square pockets in the front, affixed quite liberally with rivets.
“STOP!,” I cried. “What the hell kind of pants are you wearing?” Followed by, “STEP AWAY FROM THE CAR!”
He looked at me quizzically (I get that a lot). “What?”
“You’ve got rivets all over your [insert expletive here] pants! You’ll scratch PD!”
I told him to wait a moment whilst I repaired to the trunk (for Keith: boot) and fetched my fetching fender blanket, replete with tool storage pockets (for Canadians: poche a outils), procured lo these many years ago from Bobby D.
Returning to the just-about-any-second-now scene of the crime, I unfolded the aforementioned fender garb what I mentioned afore and regaled my careless brother-in-law with its many fine attributes, not the least of which was the thoughtful inclusion of tool pockets. Then, I cavalierly tossed the blanket across the car in anticipation of securing it in its proper place.
It was at that point that my brother-in-law, stout fellow he may be, cried out like a little girl and ducked to avoid the incoming material. His questionable avoidance technique included tossing the #4 plug into the air as he fended off the soft and supple fender blanket with all the grace of a strip club bouncer running some miscreant toward the curb. We heard ole #4 hit the concrete and shatter like so many wine glasses tossed gracefully in nearby hearths.
I was forced, of course, to procure an entire set of new plugs (I mean, who would replace just one?).
So, it is clearly evident, Your Honor(s), that this entire escapade and the resulting cost of a set of plugs is directly attributable to a high-quality, well-manufactured, reasonably-priced fender blanket designed, manufactured, and foisted upon an unsuspecting public by Bobby D.
I rest my case.
I opened the hood (for Keith: bonnet) and took a position on the starboard side, my brother-in-law to port (he’s retired Navy, so just go with it). We’d decided to remove the spark plugs to facilitate engine revolutioning as part of the mysterious valve adjustment procedure. He had removed plugs 1 through 4, plug #4 still in his hand.
Looking up, I noticed he was wearing some sort of sartorially questionable britches, perhaps throw-back denims from his Navy days, which had strange square pockets in the front, affixed quite liberally with rivets.
“STOP!,” I cried. “What the hell kind of pants are you wearing?” Followed by, “STEP AWAY FROM THE CAR!”
He looked at me quizzically (I get that a lot). “What?”
“You’ve got rivets all over your [insert expletive here] pants! You’ll scratch PD!”
I told him to wait a moment whilst I repaired to the trunk (for Keith: boot) and fetched my fetching fender blanket, replete with tool storage pockets (for Canadians: poche a outils), procured lo these many years ago from Bobby D.
Returning to the just-about-any-second-now scene of the crime, I unfolded the aforementioned fender garb what I mentioned afore and regaled my careless brother-in-law with its many fine attributes, not the least of which was the thoughtful inclusion of tool pockets. Then, I cavalierly tossed the blanket across the car in anticipation of securing it in its proper place.
It was at that point that my brother-in-law, stout fellow he may be, cried out like a little girl and ducked to avoid the incoming material. His questionable avoidance technique included tossing the #4 plug into the air as he fended off the soft and supple fender blanket with all the grace of a strip club bouncer running some miscreant toward the curb. We heard ole #4 hit the concrete and shatter like so many wine glasses tossed gracefully in nearby hearths.
I was forced, of course, to procure an entire set of new plugs (I mean, who would replace just one?).
So, it is clearly evident, Your Honor(s), that this entire escapade and the resulting cost of a set of plugs is directly attributable to a high-quality, well-manufactured, reasonably-priced fender blanket designed, manufactured, and foisted upon an unsuspecting public by Bobby D.
I rest my case.
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