The baron is a bastard.

the baron.

I love my car, I really do. I’ve had the baron for a little while now. He is usually reliable and good to me (if a bit wheezy and nagging) but today he made me truly angry for the first time in almost a year.

I got stuck in the snow on Marys Peak coming home from work recently, and had to try to put my chains on to get out. Now, I am an idiot. I bought the wrong-sized chains. So they of course flew off the tires with horrid noises- and I ended up going back a few days later with Hawkins to dig the Baron out of the plow heap, after the road was clear.

That’s the backstory- now, today I was driving to work and got a flat. I was already late, because of daylight savings- the day was kind of shot to hell to begin with. But a flat is no big deal. I have been a seasoned road tripper for decades and I know how to change my damn tires.


My spare was also flat.

do you want to ride in my vulva?

So I called into town and asked for help, and found a place that would bring me a tire and had the right size. About an hour later, a greasy guy from the mechanic place came up in his huge truck, with a tire in the back. I changed the tire out while he smoked a cigarette. He started looking at my old tire and said “hey you know this thing is chewed up right here”

The pattern of the snapped chain was obvious. It had punctured my tire.

Now, I didn’t want to buy his shitty old tire, for twice the cost of a new tire. So I followed him to the garage, had him fix my old tire, and then changed it again. I’ve now changed my tire twice- and three hours later, I was finally back on the road.


I know, I know. This isn’t the Baron’s fault. He’s only a car and I shouldn’t anthropomorphize. But I swear the squeal of the heater fan had a particularly smug note in it the entire day.

I’ll be at the shop tomorrow for a bit. My friend Milky is getting tattooed, and giving the Baron his tune-up. The bastard.