Poll: Your beloved pet has destroyed your most prized posession!
- Thread starter Jailbird408
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No logistical excuses? Challenge accepted.
So my dog sneaks out of the house and takes an unusually oily piss on the driveway one morning just before I leave for work. It coats my tires of my truck (which is easily my most invaluable item because my city is a suburban nightmare of backroads and subdivisions) as I back out, and I make my way to the highway in one piece by coincidentally driving at a low enough speed where friction wasn't overcome by inertia often enough to cause concern. Once on the highway, however, even the mildest curves caused a terrifying hydroplane, so I try to pull over, but applying the brakes when I was already sliding was a bad idea so I end up diagonally skidding onto dirt and grass with the wheels locked. For those of you unfamiliar with trucks, this is the reason you need to wear your uncomfortable vinyl seatbelt at all times because:
A) Rally cars would have difficulty staying upright. There is no reason why one should expect this effect to be negated by being several feet taller, made of heavy steel, and having an additional foot of clearance.
B) Your neck might not be stronger than your body is heavy. You're gonna flip, is what I'm saying.
So, after rolling to a stop wrong-side-up, I make the heartbreaking discovery that I cannot unlatch my seatbelt and brace myself against the ground/ceiling with both hands. Fuck. Man, I hope the last month of strength training actually went towards something, because I really don't want to get stuck with my knees on the horn and my forehead smushed into the windshield; my ego badly wants to prevent me from adding that additional level of indignity to my experience. Reality, as it turns out, cannot be bothered to feel bad for my desire to believe I can be a badass in a crisis. Face in windshield and horn blaring, I fumble for a full twenty seconds of held breath trying to angle my arm to a degree where it can unlatch the door; I then tumble out like a boneless fish. I sit awkwardly in the grass next to my upturned vehicle and hate myself for deciding to quit smoking because having a cigarette to puff on would look way less pathetic than shifting my gaze aimlessly and making "goddammit" faces.
The paramedics check me out and give me some patronizing line about how it was a good thing I was wearing my seatbelt, and then described the observation of one possible result of not wearing a restraint (in graphic detail) as though it was supposed to make me feel lucky. When they drove me to the hospital, I threw up in the back of the ambulance because I couldn't stop thinking about how close I'd just been to having an anecdote to offer the EMT who wondered what it felt like to have jagged shards of steel shoved through your brain. I get a ride home and answer some questions for the police, then go to the bathroom and almost cry tears of joy when I finally get to take the piss I've been holding in for four hours.
Two days later, the police come back and tell me that they found an unusual mixture of motor oil and dog piss that had adhered to my tires. I wonder if they're joking, but one of the officers purses his lips, nods, and asks to see my garage, like he already knew what had happened. Once in the garage, he quickly spots a chewed-open bottle of motor oil. I still had no idea where he was going with this. He informs me that it's becoming a rampant trend among adolescent dogs to drink motor oil to get high, and that I should really start storing my engine lubricants (which are apparently like doggy-dextro) on high shelves. Okay, so a dog snuck into my garage, drank my Castrol 5w30 and took a giant oil leak on my driveway. But who did it? How many culprits were there? How many dogs had I seen rubbing their faces on the carpet while blasting Bassnectar in their headphones? I haven't... oh.
Sammy. I was wondering who had been draining the battery on my MP3 player overnight and rated all the Datsik remixes as 5/5 stars. My dog is a junkie, and she cost me my truck while nearly killing me. Now I have to get rides from people to and from college. I can no longer visit people outside of walking distance. I'm effectively on house arrest for a long time, and I just had a day worse than the worst breakup of my life. All because of my dog. Do I still love her?
Yeah, man. I love Sammy. Sammy rules.
Rules.
So my dog sneaks out of the house and takes an unusually oily piss on the driveway one morning just before I leave for work. It coats my tires of my truck (which is easily my most invaluable item because my city is a suburban nightmare of backroads and subdivisions) as I back out, and I make my way to the highway in one piece by coincidentally driving at a low enough speed where friction wasn't overcome by inertia often enough to cause concern. Once on the highway, however, even the mildest curves caused a terrifying hydroplane, so I try to pull over, but applying the brakes when I was already sliding was a bad idea so I end up diagonally skidding onto dirt and grass with the wheels locked. For those of you unfamiliar with trucks, this is the reason you need to wear your uncomfortable vinyl seatbelt at all times because:
A) Rally cars would have difficulty staying upright. There is no reason why one should expect this effect to be negated by being several feet taller, made of heavy steel, and having an additional foot of clearance.
B) Your neck might not be stronger than your body is heavy. You're gonna flip, is what I'm saying.
So, after rolling to a stop wrong-side-up, I make the heartbreaking discovery that I cannot unlatch my seatbelt and brace myself against the ground/ceiling with both hands. Fuck. Man, I hope the last month of strength training actually went towards something, because I really don't want to get stuck with my knees on the horn and my forehead smushed into the windshield; my ego badly wants to prevent me from adding that additional level of indignity to my experience. Reality, as it turns out, cannot be bothered to feel bad for my desire to believe I can be a badass in a crisis. Face in windshield and horn blaring, I fumble for a full twenty seconds of held breath trying to angle my arm to a degree where it can unlatch the door; I then tumble out like a boneless fish. I sit awkwardly in the grass next to my upturned vehicle and hate myself for deciding to quit smoking because having a cigarette to puff on would look way less pathetic than shifting my gaze aimlessly and making "goddammit" faces.
The paramedics check me out and give me some patronizing line about how it was a good thing I was wearing my seatbelt, and then described the observation of one possible result of not wearing a restraint (in graphic detail) as though it was supposed to make me feel lucky. When they drove me to the hospital, I threw up in the back of the ambulance because I couldn't stop thinking about how close I'd just been to having an anecdote to offer the EMT who wondered what it felt like to have jagged shards of steel shoved through your brain. I get a ride home and answer some questions for the police, then go to the bathroom and almost cry tears of joy when I finally get to take the piss I've been holding in for four hours.
Two days later, the police come back and tell me that they found an unusual mixture of motor oil and dog piss that had adhered to my tires. I wonder if they're joking, but one of the officers purses his lips, nods, and asks to see my garage, like he already knew what had happened. Once in the garage, he quickly spots a chewed-open bottle of motor oil. I still had no idea where he was going with this. He informs me that it's becoming a rampant trend among adolescent dogs to drink motor oil to get high, and that I should really start storing my engine lubricants (which are apparently like doggy-dextro) on high shelves. Okay, so a dog snuck into my garage, drank my Castrol 5w30 and took a giant oil leak on my driveway. But who did it? How many culprits were there? How many dogs had I seen rubbing their faces on the carpet while blasting Bassnectar in their headphones? I haven't... oh.
Sammy. I was wondering who had been draining the battery on my MP3 player overnight and rated all the Datsik remixes as 5/5 stars. My dog is a junkie, and she cost me my truck while nearly killing me. Now I have to get rides from people to and from college. I can no longer visit people outside of walking distance. I'm effectively on house arrest for a long time, and I just had a day worse than the worst breakup of my life. All because of my dog. Do I still love her?
Yeah, man. I love Sammy. Sammy rules.
Rules.
That'd be either my new computer (heavens know how a cat can trash that) or my collection of books, games and DVD/Blu Ray's. I'd rage, but then either of my cats would do something like this:
And...yeah.
And...yeah.
Your imagination is one to behold, that was hilarious. Also, your dog looks awesome. Got a sharper picture of her? And what kind of truck do you have?SODAssault said:
My most prized possession is of massive, massive sentimental value so I'd...I'd just be really upset, to be honest.
The cat will get a death stare, however
.
The cat will get a death stare, however
.
My laptop is covered by an "Anything and Everything" warranty, so I'm good there.
I'd be dumbfounded as to how a year-and-a-half-old corgi disassembled a full-metal Beretta M92 Sword Cutlass airsoft pistol. Too dumbfounded to be mad.
I'd be dumbfounded as to how a year-and-a-half-old corgi disassembled a full-metal Beretta M92 Sword Cutlass airsoft pistol. Too dumbfounded to be mad.
I'd be sad, because it's a childhood object, but I still love my dog.
I'm actually cuddling with her now. She's snoring. It's so cute :3
I'm actually cuddling with her now. She's snoring. It's so cute :3
Can't let the material world get you down, even if said object costs 20 thousand dollars, at the end of the day its just an object. Love your pets, you're all they've got.