The Brits Like it From Behind

Speaking of difficult British people and their technicalities I have an interesting tale that involves my car, four people from school, a random redneck, and a whole lot of voltage. I swear, it's not kinky....maybe it is. I really don't know what y'all are into, however, to each their own.

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"The Brits Like it From Behind"

Many people believe that their dogs resemble their owners. I hold the belief that people drive cars that match their personalities and perhaps their looks in a way. My car, for anyone now interested, is gorgeous. She's foreign, like me. Green, I'm olive, but close enough. Gorgeous, I hate to toot my own horn. However, she's also a righteous pain in the ass.....I claim that one as well. The one thing that my car and I don't have in common is that she's a 1991 British Jaguar XJS, and I'm a 1989 American Jew. However, I swear, the similarities are there.

Now, my car, despite it's lovely exterior, has more problems under the hood than Courtney Love. So far I have replaced the battery, fixed the hood latch, got freon from over the border, and replaced the exterior lights. Two months ago I, these I's when discussing car payments are really my mother, paid $3000 to replace all of the fuel valves replaced since apparently my car had been recalled in the past due to these valves catching fire when the car ignition was activated. Apparently I had been driving a bomb for the last three years and not realizing it.

The past three weeks though I had been unable to drive my now defused bomb due to her not wanting to run. Now, most people would think that my car being unable to turn on was an electrical problem or perhaps even a fuel problem. Nope, it was Jesus. Jesus is solely responsible for the death of my car. Also, my friend Texter (from a previous story) is a witch.

One night I was quite hungry after my statistics course. I come home and find Texter sitting in my living room eating Chinese food. After wooing me with said food of Oriental persuasion I decide that I too would like some. Once I decided what I wanted, I began to beg Texter to let me drive to the restaurant. Now, I'm not a fantastic driver. However, I'm a decent enough driver when I feel like it. People here just have too high of a standard when it comes to auto safety. Prudes.

Now, I win the argument (like usual) ((Okay, I'm full of shit. I don't win arguments with Texter. She gets violent when she doesn't win.)) As we walk to my car Texter jokes about making poor decisions (which is another story in and of itself). I laugh and get behind the wheel of Jacqueline. As soon as Texter gets in I close the doors and put my key in the ignition. NOTHING. HAPPENS. Lights don't turn on. No sound comes from the engine. Nothing. The only sound I hear is the laughter of Texter. I don't exactly remember what happened next, however, I left the car, as did Texter, and heard:

Texter: "Jesus loves me!"

Yep, she had summoned Jesus to break my car. All the terrible things I have said over the years finally caused enough grief in the Heavens and caused Jesus himself to fly down and kill my car like the Angel of Death killed the first-born male of every family in Egypt back in the day.

I was pissed.

Texter was delighted. She then lived up to her alias and texted the following limerick to her roommates:

"Jesus loves me this I know for reasons I'll tell you later."

It wasn't a fun night.

----------------Three Weeks Later----------------------

Three days ago I decided to make time for myself and Jacqueline and attempt to revive her from her deity induced coma. I go to my friend Aussie and asked her and her car to give me and my own a quick jump. She agrees and drives over to the inclined space (keep this incline in mind) that I last parked my car in. To give a car a jump (since I had no clue what to do) you apparently have to have the two vehicles nose to nose. This was an accepted fact between all parties present (myself, Aussie, Alphabet, and Texter (since she caused this horrible travesty to occur in the first place). After figuring out how to put Jacqueline into neutral I carefully roll my beloved and comatose automobile into the street. We line up Jacqueline and Jeffery (Aussie's car) nose to nose and pop the hoods on both cars. Now, Jeffery has a battery, engine, and a lot of pipes and shit under his hood. Jacqueline....doesn't. She has what I can only describe as an automotive-chastity fence. There is so much shit covering her engine that I can barely see the windshield wiper fluid. However, despite all this crap, we do notice something's missing; the battery.

After a moment of discussing where the hell my car gets it power from I remember that there's always some sort of box in the trunk of my car that hinders how many groceries I can shove into it at a time. As I open the trunk I hear a collective outburst of anger, slight confusion, and a bit of distress. Apparently, British cars have their batteries in the trunk.

So, now what? My car is now in the middle of the street, revealing it's open trunk for the world to see, and stopping traffic. There's only one thing to do: Push her back up the incline!

Now, pushing a car isn't as easy as people may thing from the movies. It's a bitch and a half and required, in the end, five people, one of which jumped out of a blocked car, to help get mine out of the way. Nobody was happy (aside from me since I couldn't stop laughing for God knows what reason. I assure you, it was hilarious at the time.)

Before we hauled my car's fat-ass back up the incline we decided we might as well jump her while she's in the way.

JUMP ONE:

Time Taken: Five minutes
Success: Minimal
Result: Not enough power to operate.

We are able to get the car back into the inclined space only to discover that I was out of gas. NOBODY was happy at this point. Even I felt a slight twinge of disappointment. Today was not shaping up to be successful.

After an hour of formalities that involved getting a gas can from my roommate Marvel, some gas with the help of Alphabet and Aussie, and a second jump from the campus police:

JUMP TWO

Time Taken: Two and a half minutes
Success: Successful enough
Result: Car can now run but needs gas

Thinking this was the end of this terrible ordeal I drive myself to the gas station in hopes of filling up. As soon as I fill up at the station I get back into my car and put my key in the ignition. As if Jesus wasn't done with me yet, I get a second blow to my battery. Now all I hear is this incessant whining as if my car swallowed a baby moray eel and was now using it as the fan belt. My car has battery power, but not enough to alternate between battery and gas.

Well fuck.

I now look at my options:

1) Push the car on my own and leave it in a shady parking lot full of drug dealers, alcoholics, illegal immigrants, and Mormons.

2) Call Alphabet for help (since Texter fled the scene to go to work).

3) Cry

I opted for option two with a small side of silent weeping from three.

I call Alphabet and within ten minutes or so she and Marvel are at the gas station. Alphabet was smirking. I was quietly weeping into my Sonic cup. The people in the parking lot were staring. It was hot. Overall, I was not amused.

We then proceeded to jump my car for the third time.

JUMP THREE

Time Taken: Ten to fifteen minutes
Success: My car now screeches weakly at me when I try to turn the ignition
Result: She's weaker than Bill Clinton's heart

We decided that it was a lost cause and to push it to the side of the gas station. While pushing, this lovely toothless man with a belly the size of a watermelon, and a couple of baked hams, decided to lend us helping hand. He apparently had MANLY jumper cables. (I guess Alphabet's were for girls). The jump took nearly half an hour. It was hot. I also had to sit outside and talk to Papa Stomach about why I need an American car. He thought mine was Japanese. He also looked under my car's hood while chain smoking and came up as if he had no clue what he was looking at. Yeah, she's in great hands here.

After we jump my car, for the third time that day, I was instructed by Papa Stomach and Marvel to haul my car's ass to Auto Zone (or whatever the fuck that store's called). I do as I'm told since I'm beyond tired, and late to work on a project due the following morning.

I make it to Auto Zone without incident. I park. I turn off my car. She dies. I weep and enter the store. They crack jokes at my expense. I am not amused. We test the car. The battery's fine. It's an alternator problem. They can't fix foreign cars. I was told I should get an American car. I think about punching the guy in the crotch and then saying I couldn't fix that. I shrug it off and decide to keep that in my head. He says he can jump my car for me. I say yes and try not to hook up the testing machine to his chest and turning it on high. I get the jump (number four).

JUMP FOUR

Time Take: Five to ten minutes
Success: Successful enough to flee what could have been a crime scene
Result: I have enough power to get her back to campus

By now I just want to get home. Nobody likes my car. She's dying. It's hot. I'm hungry. There's homework to be done.

I don't make it back to campus.

According to Marvel, I really shouldn't park my car on campus if she needs to go to the mechanic. Why? Well, apparently the unsupervised parking lot behind the big church near school is safer than our college campus that has its own private police department and well lit areas. At this point in the day I am to tired to argue. I park, kick my car, and then get in with Alphabet and Marvel. Driving away I shoot a fleeting glance at Jacqueline and ponder flicking her off. I bet if she could, she'd do the same to me.

I'm an International Arms Dealer (Part One of an International Excursion)

A couple of years ago I went on a safari to South Africa. Despite all the wonderful memories of the African plains being illuminated by the calm neutrality of the sun during the dawn while animals arose from their slumber in the FREEZING COLD of Africa's winter (our summer) one event sticks to mind of how myself, my mother, and her boyfriend almost got arrested for transporting illegal items into London during a layover.

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"I'm an International Arms Dealer"

A couple years ago I traveled with my mother and her boyfriend to South Africa for a safari we had been planning since high school. The plan was simple:

• Leave Laredo
• Fly to DFW
• Fly to London for a 24 hour layover
• Fly to South Africa
• Get on a bus and drive to the Limpopo Province
• Hunt
• Go home after ten days or so

Apparently in-between "Leave Laredo" and "Fly to South Africa" there was a problem.

According to an older rule with American Airlines, traveling in the air with ammunition is legal as long as your weapons are not with you. (Yep, apparently this was so after 9/11) ((I know, odd, however, I don't make the rules, I just twist, torture, manipulate, and finally lay them to rest.)). However, American Airlines didn't think that their passengers would want to fly American OVERSEAS WHERE LAWS ARE DIFFERENT.

The journey from Laredo to DFW was about as pleasant as flying coach gets in America. After a short delay in DFW (If anyone here has neither had to rush from one terminal to another or wait hours for your flight in DFW we need to talk) we boarded our flight to London. All was well in the world. I read and watched TV on the back of the seat of the person in front of me (my techonology has come a long way). My mother complained about not being able to sleep inbetween bouts of nodding off. Her boyfriend took some pills and was out like a light. The occasional mistake of a child burst into tears as their ears popped. The sad stewardesses squeezed into uncomfortable and terribly unforgiving skirts went aisle to aisle asking people if they needed anything. I enjoyed myself immensely.

As soon as we landed in London, after we were able to get off the now ridiculously hot airplane, we were surrounded by the awe and wonder of a foreign country. New signs, foods, strange languages, it was glorious. Then the shocking realization that we were just in America again with less crime, a better government and economy, and proper English, came about. We didn't care though. We were tired and excited for our twenty-four hour excursion into the city.

As we get into the baggage claim Great Hall of the airport we are presented with two options: Customs/Walk Outside. Before we chose though, I had to figure out how to work the trolley that held our baggage.

Now, if any of my readers are English, please, answer me this question: Why do baggage carts have brakes on them? Is there some sort of English Baggage Derby that's held across the pond that us Americans aren't privvy to?

So, after taking a tiny while to leran how to operate the baggage cart from hell, we (my mother) made our decision: Let's be good Americans and check-in at customs.

WORST.IDEA.EVER.

After walking into customs we are greeted by the nice sounds of absolute silence. Nobody is there. Nobody is assigned to work the customs office. I reapeat, nobody in the international airport is assigned to work the customs office. If you want to sneak a WMD, Himalayian whistle child, fighting cocks, heroin, illegal bannanas, anything, into a foreign country, please, by all means, do so through London. They obviously don't mind.

After we flag down a man who can only be described as the best friend to Simon Pegg in Hot Fuzz we begin the arduous task of going through customs.

(Now, before we continue, I must remind people of my only rule on this blog: I will never use someone's real name in my stories. This is done to protect themselves, as well as myself, so as these people don't lose their jobs, family members, what-have-you. With that in mind, I have to break the rule this one time as the name of this man is imperative to his personality and our conversation with him. Now then, back to business:)

When you go through customs you're asked to present your passports, answer where you're going, why you're going there, etc. Also, your bags are checked to make sure you're not carrying around illegal items into or out of the country. As we are going through the general "Why are you here?", "Where are you headed?", "Where are you from?" questions, our customs "official" and my group go through this conversation:

Luke: "'Ello, where might you be headin' today?" (I'm a terrible human being for typing in his accent.)

Parent: "We're on our way to tour London before going to Africa for a Safari."

Luke: "Oooh, Africa. I've never been there. However, judgin' by the sounds of your voices, I bet you're Americans."

[We agree.]

Luke: "I love America! Y'know, I love your Star Wars. After seeing that I like to walk around thinkin' Yoda's on me back and tellin' me things like, 'Use the fork Luke!'"

Yep, "Use the fork Luke". This man, this sad, proberly decently paid( since we're in the UK), airport worker, has misquoted, on purpose, one of the most influential science fiction movies of all time. Further more, he does it on purpose and won't shutup for the rest of our time together.

Luke: "Right, let's jus' check what you have in your bags and we can send you off to the city. You know though, you could have just gone ahead. Nobody comes into customs around here." (I wonder why?)

My bag is checked and cleared. No problem. I am now bored and reading pamphlets on safe sex and items prohibited on an airplane. Why those two pamphlets were mixed together I'll never know.

My mom's boyfriend's bag is next. (Let's call him Tex) As Jedi Luke is searching through Tex's bags he finds an interesting find: two large boxes of ammunition. Full boxes. Boxes that were purposefully placed in the bag with the intention to load into a gun and kill things with.

The look on Luke's face was priceless. Now if only we had the gun I'm suer he would have wished for Master Yoda to hand him a lightsaber. However, since he didn't have one, he grabbed the next best thing: a phone.

Three hours, two customs official, a pissed off parent, a tired me, and a now annoyed Tex later, we are told one simple thing:

We've committed a crime.

Apparently, U.S. and American Airlines laws state it is legal for us to declare and carry ammunition aboard a plane as long as the weapon is not with us.

However, we were now outside American laws. In the United Kingdom, it is illegal to be carrying ammunition inside of an airport and across the country's borders. What a way to start a trip. I am now a college-aged arms dealer who is travelling with a law enforcement officer and a doctor. I might as well be cuban and sending my lackeys to American with cocaine nestled in their bodies. I'm sure the penalty would be lighter.

After a longer period of time with this lovely girl from Americna Airlines on the phone we reach a conclusion: The law is a gray area and in honor of us and our stupid actions it will be rewritten.

I'm thrilled that I helped get a law rewritten. My mother's pissed. Tex is experiencing jetlag and just wants a drink. Luke thinks he's now saved Tatooine from Jawa arms smugglers. London is safe. And our trip is still on day one.