Category archive: Humor

June 7th, 2016 at 02:14am by Bryan

Project Ruby: Update 1

(Image courtesy of Razete Photography)

Abstract:

February 3rd, 2016 was a bad day.

Sadly, the love affair between Ruby and I was extremely short lived.

Nine days elapsed from the time of purchase to the time that I found myself stranded on the side of a public highway, tears in my eyes and regret bubbling within my bowels.

Why the hell did I buy this stupid thing when I already had what was arguably the perfect car? In all of the time that I had spent nearly perfecting a system of yearly tradeoffs, I had defied a plan that I had stuck with for years when I sold my GTO. Oh, no, my lord, what have I done? How did I give up a nearly paid off and wonderful V8 grand touring car as well as a relatively inexpensive daily driver, all for the promise of having something new?

The downward spiral of my car fetish began on January 24, 2015.

I picked up a Hyundai Genesis 5.0 R-spec, and began to want more. When it got hit on Interstate 75, the panic ensued. The years of carrying thousands of dollars of positive equity in my automobiles was destroyed, all because I let my emotions control my automobile purchasing decisions. The accident wiped out nearly six grand worth of equity, proving to make selling what was already a niche-market car even more difficult just to break even. In a rush to purchase its follow-up vehicle, I sold the car under a clause of -$400.

Yes, I paid $400 to sell my damn Hyundai Genesis.

Then, I picked up a 2008 Infiniti G35S. It was literally the perfect car: a wonderful blend of luxury, admirable poise and balance, dashing looks, and surprising speed. Plus, the damn thing only cost $16,000 coupled with the fact that it had a mere 55,000 original miles. Yeah, it was heavenly, but this one day, I got the idea in my head that I needed another race car.

Ruby, my 2013 Ford Mustang GT 5.0, will forever be the best car that I never should’ve bought.

Those were the thoughts that tumbled through my head as I limped the car to my apartment and immediately phoned my boss—who was the only person available to give me a ride back to work. Somehow, during my hooliganism that included a joyful 75% throttle run up Bypass 4, I pushed the clutch pedal, and shifted into 3^rd gear, or so I thought. When I released the clutch pedal, the car bucked violently and revved back to 6,000rpm. I freaked, pushed the clutch pedal to the floor, and attempted to abort the run by putting the shifter in neutral gate to regain my composure—only the shifter seemed jammed.

Weird.

I pulled over into the emergency lane. Nothing I tried was able to free the shifter, necessitating a slow drive home in second gear. To my chagrin, I was now faced with a car that had a broken transmission and a questionable warranty. Awesome.

I’ll save my dealings with the dealership that I purchased the car from, the International Auto Outlet, for a later post. For now, I’ll just summarize by noting that my very expensive, low mileage, bright red 2013 Ford Mustang GT 5.0 was gone for two months. . .

Had it not been for my repeated intervention, it would likely still be sitting in a garage with the transmission still in pieces.

Design:

It’s such a good-looking car. I mean, c’mon, you can’t deny it.

(Image courtesy of Razete Photography)

They say that a truly good car is one that you can’t walk from without looking back, and this (like most of my other cars) hits the spot dead center. Versus the archrival Camaro, I have always claimed that this generation Mustang is victorious in the execution of every stylistic detail abound on its body. Regarding the 2013 refresh, I’ll have to say that the taillights are my favorite part.

(Courtesy of Razete Photography)

My only wish it that I had the GT Premium, if only because the package comes with the better looking 19 inch wheels that fill the wheel wells more aggressively than the base 18s. Oh, and please don’t mind my shoddy plastidip job. I plan on correcting it as soon as possible.

Shortly after I got Ruby back from its long stay at the clusterf*ck of dealership doom, someone parked next to me at work wasn’t paying attention and swung their front bumper across mine. I wasn’t there to catch the act in progress, and the security cameras were too grainy to pinpoint key details about the culprit like license plate numbers.

All I know is that the car was some heap of shit Dodge Stratus Coupe that was driven by someone that is no longer employed at my facility. Bummer, but at least it didn’t actually damage the fender. Luckily, the majority of the scuffs came out with some Meguiar’s rubbing compound.

Driving Notes:

Enough with my sob story of automotive anguish.

You want to hear about the elephant in the room, well, the bright red blocky looking elephant.

In short, it’s been a trying experience, but again, what good is a racecar if it doesn’t test your patience and your boundaries? Didn’t I want a car with more emotion and “soul” versus the largely soulless Hyundai Genesis? I sometimes complain about how it is essentially a base model with zero sound deadening, a cheaply strewn dashboard, and hard plastics galore but—its still a glorious automobile.

So, perhaps I’ve finally found my match made in heaven.

I get in by swinging open a door that weighs every bit of 300 pounds. Parking on a hill worries me because I fear that the hinges might snap at any moment, but closer inspection proves that the steel gage is nearly six to seven millimeters thick, even on the folds. These hinges are truly mighty, but once you realize that shutting the door is equivalent to 10 reps on an exercise machine, it becomes imperative to make sure that all extremities are inside. Yes, I shut the door on my leg once. Yes, I cried.

Then, I fire up the engine. There are no fancy buttons, key fobs, or retina scans here. Ruby, by the blessings of the automotive gods, is endowed with what we old-timers call a key.

Oh, and mine is kind of broken (the lock button doesn’t work, and the unlock counterpart barely works).

Insert the key and crank it. The Coyote V8 is eagerly spun to life with a starter that apparently has the enthusiasm to turn over an aircraft carrier’s steam turbine. Every time it engages, I smile, knowing that there is just something different about this machine. The V8 gurgles and churns more so than my old LS1. The pulses of its firing order shower the thinly insulated cabin with vibrations that make me cringe as it settles down from the cold idle. I watch the tachometer sift below 2500rpm as the dashboard and the entire center console come alive with resonance.

For a moment, I wonder if the car will explode, but alas, it doesn’t.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is how a car is supposed to start.

It isn’t one of those cars that you turn on and forget that you’ve left the engine running. It’ll never try to coddle you and hide its purpose. Plainly put, this is a muscle car, and there is never a waking moment where you catch it lying. The car for the most part is juvenile and rough, and despite a major rebuild, the transmission still sounds as if it’s filled with gravel if lugged at low RPM. The stock shifter is, well, awful, but I was warned. Some genius in Ford’s engineering management was given the task of reducing driveline NVH, so he endowed a poor sap with the task of designing a remote mount shifter, likely with a budget of $75. The result is what is connected to the MT-82—itself known to be troublesome—resembling what is best described as a gear selection rod attached to piano cables. When it is moved, I only feel a vague resemblance of mechanical feedback, and that sensation only grows worse the more aggressively I drive the car.

The problem could be fixed with a $475 MGW shifter, but that leads to another issue.

Well, I tend to find myself entirely unable to drive a car for any period of time without messing with it. No matter what it is, or who makes it, each automobile has its own quirks and weaknesses. As a self-declared enthusiast, my predilection to modify whatever I’m driving eats away at my soul little by little until it caves. I have a lot on my plate right now, so I’m inclined to say no to modifications due to their obvious monetary burden, but I’m sure I’ll find a way to work something in the plans.

Add it to my wishlist:

Performance Numbers:

So, I’ll start this by admitting my partial defeat. See, Mustangs are usually very happy being piloted in straight lines and Ruby is no different. Unfortunately for both of us, the clutch hydraulic system seemed to disagree.

Since my last semester of college chewed up every chilly Friday night of this year’s racing season, I was finally able to worm my way to the drag strip on June 3rd, where I was pleasantly greeted with balmy humidity and 94 degree track temperatures. Noting that I had been having issues with the Mustang’s clutch at high rpm, I had made a few notes on how to contend with these issues while still managing to achieve my goal of a high 12-second 1/4 mile time. According to many sources, this should’ve been perfectly doable with the mostly stock setup.

Oh yeah, getting the transmission repaired under warranty required hard negotiations with International Auto Outlet to remove the majority of performance-enhancing parts like the BBK long tube headers, BBK catless x-pipe, tune, etc. The car is now considerably slower than it was when I bought it, but this is all speaking in relative terms. In short, the engine is still an absolute charm.

However, it enjoys to rev, and because of its relatively low displacement, it needs to rev in order to make its power. With the redline set firmly at 7,000rpm, it is notable of this engine to produce the bulk of its peak power figures in the upper reaches of the rev band. It sounds absolutely glorious up this high, but there’s this one nagging problem where the clutch pedal decides to go on strike, thus setting me up for a chapter of public Mustang embarrassment.

No, I didn’t swerve violently and wreck into a crowd or another automobile, but I did in fact manage to miss shifts in 3 out of the 5 runs that I performed that night. To make matters worse, it seemed at is if every joule of heat that the pressure plate absorbed worsened its ability to even function in a basic sense. I quickly learned that launch rpm was limited to 1,500, or basically what you use for a typical stop light cruise. After bogging the engine, I was forced to wait for it to rev to 6,200rpm (800 short of the redline) before slowly and very carefully selecting the next gear. Considering that the Coyote doesn’t make peak power until 6,500rpm, quite a bit of power was left on the table through each consecutive shift.

In short, the best run was a 13.215@110.9mph.

For comparison sake, Machscribe, like most other automotive journalists, uses Density Altitude correction as a factor for acceleration times. Considering that every car cannot be tested in the same environment, this calculation is important for determining a baseline.

This leaves us with a relatively comfortable DA corrected time of:

12.855@113.428mph.

I can live with that, and I’m especially impressed considering the shifting handicap. Now, I have started my research into my line of modifications designed to solve the problem. I started with an American Muscle braided stainless steel clutch hydraulic line, and I will install it next weekend (hopefully) to see if it clears up some of the slop. Also, per the recommendation of my fellow enthusiasts, I will also drop some legitimate DOT4 fluid into the reservoir.

Efficiency:

It seems like this warning light illuminates every three days.

Right now, I’m getting a consistent average of:

18.44 mpg

Like I said in the initial review, it isn’t a Prius, though my stance on the 16 gallon gas tank being too damn small still holds firmly.

Conclusion:

At times, I’m torn on what to think about this thing. I notice how impractical, loud, and raucous it is and I pause to reflect on its purpose. Honestly, this is the only way to rationalize what is widely known to be an irrational car.

A Ford Mustang GT 5.0 isn’t the car that makes sense to buy. As originally penned from A Faster Horse, I will definitely agree with the following statement:

You don’t make a rational decision to buy a Mustang, because it is not a rational car. It is, however, a car designed to pry at the heart, thus making the purchase of one based purely on human emotion.

I love it. Through its quirks, and its crudeness, beneath the bodacious curves lies a car that has a soul begging to be driven. I feel as if the car wants me to explore it, to heal it, and to enhance it. Considering that this is just the dawn of a burgeoning long term relationship, I think Ruby and I will have plenty of time to become more acquainted.

Until next time, she’ll sit quietly and soundly in her garage.

–Bryan

December 10th, 2014 at 07:19pm by Bryan

“The Brown Wedding” by James O. Thach

Yes, this must be shared. The enormous potential of sugar-free gummi bears to be used a weapon of mass toilet destruction holds true. Here, on the Amazon.com review of Haribo’s version of these monsters, I found this “top rated review.” Though I did not write this, I feel as if it would be a crime against humanity to not share the author’s incredible story:

The Brown Wedding

It’s been a rough couple of years for my family. There have been a few land disputes, some nasty feuds, several imprisonments and a beheading. But perhaps our most celebrated misfortune was what has come to be known as The Brown Wedding.

I don’t want to bore you with all the details, but essentially my cousin Robb was betrothed to the daughter of a family rival. Then, against all our counsel, he eloped with another woman. Classic Robb.

Anyway, you can imagine our surprise when we found ourselves invited to the wedding of the jilted bride. Perhaps it should have been a red flag. But we Starks love a free meal, so off we went.

They threw it in their castle. After a tense exchange between Robb and the father of the bride, the ceremony was performed, and we all sat down for the feast. It was bench seating. The food was simple fare–beans, broccoli, and bran muffins. Again, a warning sign, but we were caught up in the merriment and the wine.

Dessert arrived. The waiters uncovered tureens filled with colorful piles of gummy bears–a welcomed note of levity. The fifes played a jig, and we all dug in. They were delightful–fruity and delicious.

Twenty minutes later, the father of the bride proposed a toast. “To the Starks,” he said. “May all your misfortunes be behind you.”

Around this time, I began to feel uncomfortable rumblings down below, and looked about for a restroom. As my eyes scanned the hall, I noticed that the bride’s family weren’t eating the gummy bears. A waiter was refilling the tureen next to me. I snuck a glance at the bag–Haribo Sugar Free Gummy Bears. My blood ran cold.

I rose to shout a warning to my family, but the alarm came from my backside–a three-note trumpet blast that ended badly. I felt a fullness in the back of my pants. A thousand shocked eyes turned to me. And then the room erupted in a cacophony of flatulence–and worse. Far worse.

How can I describe it? The sights, the sounds, the smells. And the pain–like a grappling hook dragged backward through my bowels.

I watched in horror as, one by one, my family doubled over, succumbing to the ceaseless waves of stabbing pain. Some were clutching their bellies, others lay writhing on the floor, or stumbling in circles, emitting auburn plumes of effluvium. The walls were soon spattered with our suffering.

The father of the bride watched it all with intent eyes, delighted by the macabre spectacle.

I saw Robb–brave Robb–fall victim to the gastronomic assault. Not even his pregnant wife was spared. Monstrous.

Soon only our matriarch was left standing, teetering as she made a final plea for mercy. But too late. She fell to her knees and erupted, and what came out of her haunts me to this day.

So hear me, and hear me well. I swear vengeance on them, their house and their kin. I will hunt them to the last of their line, from Winterfell to Casterly Rock. And if I do not live to see their castle burn to the ground, I will at least light the match. For, by the gods, someone needs to light a match in that place.

–James O. Thach.

November 11th, 2014 at 02:34am by Bryan

Christopher Nolan’s “Interstellar” blockbuster: Win or fail?

I’ve taken the past few days to let my screening of Interstellar sink in for an in-depth analysis. While the full review will be up later, I will provide you with this Meanwhile on the Internet quick synopsis of one of the movie’s many conundrums:

(courtesy of Facebook user Luke Houser)

Yes. Please make sure to read that twice, because if any of that makes sense, it’ll help you out later.

Stay tuned as I dive further into the black hole (pun intended) of mind-blowing space opera that is Interstellar.

November 6th, 2014 at 09:45pm by Bryan

Meanwhile On Twitter. . .

Yeah, so Twitter has been one thing that I’ve never personally understood. Being an avid Facebook user, perhaps I just find myself to be biased, but on Twitter it seems as if there just a lot of people talking to themselves. Lately, due to business reasons, I’ve reinstated the life of my personal Twitter account , but I still haven’t gotten used it. At random, I get follower requests from people that I’ve never seen nor heard of in my entire life, but hey, maybe that’s the point! When I originally logged in, I think it did something where it synced with all of my phone’s contacts and automatically requested any matches that it found on Twitter, but some of these people pop up and I don’t even understand how.

Today, whilst diligently killing time, I clicked on the Twitter app and found this:

WTF is this? Here, we have two respectable ladies who apparently know everything that there is to know about two of the hottest topics trending between today’s heterosexual women: men and marriage.

What can we deduce from their theories?

[1] That men and women are apparently treated differently by society if they choose to not join someone else in holy matrimony.

Fair enough.

We’ll save the topic of gender inequality for another day.

[2] One of them said that she has, ahem, fornicated with “enough” married men to know that marriage isn’t “superlative.” Also, this seems to imply that women don’t cheat too?

Wait, so just because you’ve slept with “enough” married men, this somehow means that you know them all? Either you’ve slept with over 3.5 billion males (a good majority of which would be underage and unmarried), or you’re making a HUGE (and quite ridiculous) assumption. Maybe it shouldn’t be taken literally, after all, it could be a joke.

Even if it isn’t a joke, don’t we have more than enough evidence to know that to some people, marriage actually is superlative, if done correctly? Sure we’re seeing a record number of marital failures these days, but there’s also plenty of hope.

I mean, look at “Kimye” as a fine example:

Isn’t this one of the ultimate societal archetypes that we’ve been presented with?

They seem to be doing just fine! Didn’t you guys see that crazy music video? They’ve been married for nearly six months (longer than I have), and there are no signs of impending doom. I’ll give Kim props, as this surely trumps her previous marital stint’s 72 days of wedlock.

Oh, well. Though I briefly lose faith in humanity after seeing things like this Twitter post (I still have no clue who originated the quotes, because I’m Twitter dumb), I think we need to look on the bright side. There is nothing wrong with marriage, especially if you do it right. I mean, I’ve only been married since July 25th, so what do I know? Oh, just that when I said those vows to my wife, I actually meant them.

/rant

–Bryan

November 6th, 2014 at 11:24am by Bryan

DJ Khaled Might Have The World’s Easiest Job

Yep, I said it.

DJ Khaled might have the world’s easiest job. I mean, come on, the guy blew up by producing songs with A-list hip-hop artists in them, but he justifies putting his name on the artist list simply because he randomly shouts, “DJ KHALED!” before and after a set of uncomfortably cheesy lines said to a nameless woman before the music starts.

NOTE: This woman isn’t a normal nameless woman, she’s “smat,” according to Khaled.

You read that correctly. Not “smart,” but “smat,” without the “r,” because it would be too proper to say it right.

Should we mention the random Heads Audio advertisement drops? Dude hopped out of a Maybach 67S wearing a pair of headphones as if they were surgically attached to his head. Nonetheless, I’d imagine that he’s still making millions, so I begin to ponder the ultimate question:

[1] How do we “normal” minions manage something like this? Can I do some advertising drops for Little Debbie Iced Honey Buns (the greatest semi-artificial pastry EVER)? I have no problem with being strategically placed in a music video, dancing to the music, all while munching away at my pastry. Maybe I’ll call 2 Chainz and try to book a spot in his next drop.

[2] How does one build a music and advertising empire that enables one to easily promote products, even if the advertisement borders on horrendous? We demand answers!

Oh, and don’t dismiss this as hate. Khaled is a genius, and obviously, he’s fine-tuned his formula and it’s working. The song is catchy enough, and Future still sucks (he sounds like a drunken Walt Jr. from “Breaking Bad”), but Chris’ part shines as usual. The guy has some talent, and hopefully the anger management therapy helps him out.

“Say my name, baby!” Khaled says to the nameless woman after the music. It’s as if he’s talking to a three-year-old. “You smat! You’re loyal. You’re grateful. I appreciate that.”

Then, he tosses her a few stacks of presumably real money, “Go buy your mom a house. Go buy your whole family houses. Put some money in your savings account. Go spend some money for no reason. Come back and ask for more.”

But. . . don’t forget the HEADPHONES!

Bravo, lads.

To anyone who is enduring the struggle to wake up this morning, just click “play” on the video and enjoy the hilarity. If you’re like me, and you can’t dance, who cares? Dance anyway. Have some fun. Make the best of things.

–Bryan