I feel like making a Howie Dean noise right now.

As I was coming back from lunch, I threatened the Grumbling Bear (one of co-workers) with a methane discharge. He fears chemical warfare more than anything else in the world, so he promptly rolled the window down, which brought the sound of metal grinding upon metal to my ears.

I can't hear a $%^&* thing in that truck because of the @#$&*^ mud tires on it. There is no way of knowing how long this has been going on.

I haven't even made it to the garage yet and I've already got that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Good thing I have my old truck to drive tomorrow... y'know the one I've had for eighteen years, with a quarter million miles, cracked windshield, no floorboard (really!), bad clutch, knocking engine, no-oil-pressure-in-six-years, with it's collection of tools and empty feed/fertilizer sacks that I have to park behind the building because it embarrasses my employer... yup, that's the one.

And although it may embarress my employer, it pisses our landlord off. Which is a GOOD reason for driving it. He hates my truck (and probably me as well) because it leaves little discharges of mud and various fluids in his pristine parking lot. Under other circumstances, I would not take such delight in offending someone I don't know that well, but instead of talking to me, this yokel went to my boss and complained about my truck. I took that as a declaration of war. These days when I drive old rustbucket I park out in front of the building... just to piss him off.