Geez.

Thanks a lot, people.

You start an innocent game of Hide and Seek.

You find a great hiding spot.

And then you wait.

And then you wait some more.

And then you discover that your previous waiting was merely a prelude to the true waiting.

And then… you realise that NOBODY HAS TOLD YOU THE GAME WAS OVER.

THANKS A WHOLE FREAKING LOT, PEOPLE!

I was under that bed for TEN DAYS!

It didn’t cross any of your minds to possibly yell out “Olly olly oxen free”??

I’m really dusty and really REALLY hungry.

Stupid sore losers. Just because I’m the best-everer Hide-and-Seeker doesn’t mean you leave me out there to ROT!

I MISSED CHRISTMAS!

Everyone else got to have turkey and stuffing and Christmas cookies and presents and hugs and ham and I DIDN’T GET TO HAVE NOTHING!

NOTHING BUT THE KNOWLEDGE THAT I WON AND EVERYONE ELSE LOST! SUCKERS! YOU SUCK! I RULE! I AM THE BESTEST! YOU ALL CAN EAT MY-

[Furious whispering.]

What?

[Even more furious whispering.]

Oh.

[Pause.]

… Ahem.

It appears… that when one initiates a game of Hide And Seek… the first recommended action is to inform the other participants of the… existence… and… start of the game.

Heh.

My bad.

…

I still rule.

People are dorks and I feel like a bucket of crap.

…

EVERYBODY NOW!

[Singing]

People are dorks and I feel like a bucket of crap,
People are dorks and I feel like a bucket of crap,
People are dorks and I feel like a bucket of craaaaaa-AP,

[Dramatic pause. Big finish.]

People are dorks… CRAP CRAP CRAP CRAP CRAP!

…

Give it a good bass line and we’ve got a solid pop hit.

…

Note: I do exempt all of you, my three-hole-punched readers, from any dork-based blanket assertions.

…

Unless there’s something you’re not telling me.

[Stern glare in general direction of lurking dorks.]

The basement echoes
With my plaintive cries unheard
Cleaning up cat puke

Yeah. It’s been a good day.

We ALL remember my adventures in trying to get winter tires installed on the Sweenmobile, right? (Including the pictorial evidence of said event?)

(No. Don’t re-read it. I’ve caused you enough pain.)

Well, pursuant to the tires not getting purchased and installed on that fine occasion, I called Canadian Tire a week ago to make a new appointment to purchase and install winter tires. A lovely phone call ensued where I would say, “I would like to make an appointment,” followed by the sales rep yelling at me, “Well? Do you wanna make an appointment?” Good times. Finally, after many pleasing shenanigans, I arranged a time to bring the car in — last night, 5:30 pm — indicated the tires that were to be purchased and installed — Goodyear Nordic, P195-55R15 — and reconfirmed the details — TWICE — to make sure everything was set up precisely.

Mwua-ha.

Last night. 5:30 pm. Exactly. I step up to the service counter, keys in hand. I smile at the service rep and say, “I have an appointment to have my tires installed.”

The service rep looks at his monitor. “Jason Sweeney?”

“That’s me!” I smile. Everything’s coming up roses!

“So… do you have the tires you want installed or are you planning on purchasing some tonight?”

I sense the great and terrible Foot of Karma suddenly hovering inches above the roses.

“Ummm… the appointment was to purchase the tires and then have them installed.”

“Right. Okay… what type of tires were they?”

The blessed and gnarled Toes on the Foot of Karma waggled ominously…

“Funny. I figured that information would be on the order… but okay.” I pull the details out of my wallet. “Goodyear Nordics. Size… P195-55R15.”

“Okay… lessee…” The service rep types away on his keyboard. A pause. “Oh shit.” He quickly glances at me and then back at his screen. Types some more. “We don’t seem to have… umm… lemmee check upstairs.” He hustles off briskly, narrowly avoiding flying shards of skull that shoot out from my exploding head.

TWENTY MINUTES PASS AS I STAND THERE AT THE SERVICE COUNTER PICKING PIECES OF MY BRAIN UP OFF THE FLOOR.

Finally… he returns.

“Ummm… I’ve got bad news for you. We don’t have four of those Nordic tires in stock.”

Clenching: “So. You are going to be able to get them at another store? RIGHT?”

“Umm… yeah…” A pause. “Just… not tonight. Can you come in on Wednesday?”

The puissant and well-pedicured Foot of Karma walks away, sticky with the residue of pulped roses.

(Previously on Space Monkey Pants: a teaser.)

To begin with, my holiday Monday went straight in the crapper due to Sunday.

Specifically, due to me taking the car into Canadian Tire on Sunday to get winter tires put on.

Even more specifically — specificallier, if you so wish — due to me taking the car into Canadian Tire on Sunday to get winter tires put on and then getting a call from them 20 minutes later with the informational tidbit that the car’s lock nut key was missing.

Soooo… I head back to Canadian Tire, tear the car apart — in the process discovering 62 napkins, 6 pens, and a yo-yo — that yes, they were correct, the car was indeed minus one lock nut key.

Hence, no winter tires on Sunday.

Monday morning arrives. I greet it, welcome it into our home, thank it for tacking the word “holiday” to its front end, offer it omelets and toast, and then we’re off to the races.

The really agonizingly slow races.

I give the Suzuki dealership a call and say, “Hey, Suzuki Dealership! How’s it hanging? Remember way back in the summer when we got the tires replaced? Yeah! Then! Well, our lock nut key is gone! Vamoosed! Scrammed! Gone the way of the dodo! Taken the one-way train to Off-This-Mortal-Coil! Yeah… yeah… ok. Well, anyways, can you take care of this today. Yeah? Cool! Oh, and by the way, while I’m bringing it in, can you check the emergency brake light? It keeps turning on at random moments. Yeah? Cooler! Oh, one more thing. Our key remotes seemed to have run out of juice. Can you get those running again? Awesome! What time? 1:30? I’ll be there!”

And off I go to the Suzuki dealership with a spring in my step and the emergency brake light shining like a beacon.

I get to the dealership, describe the problems, and am told it should be about 40 minutes. I hand them the keys and off I go to pee, grab a coffee, and read some more of a sci-fi classic.

30 minutes later I get the call.

The brakes are shot. Brake shoes worn and rusting. The keys are just fine. It’s the wiring in the car that is busted. They don’t have the lock nut key. We need to get a whole new lock nut set installed.

Total cost = $325.

Total extra time = two hours.

Total amount of time spent lazing on the couch with My Lovely Wife = nada.

So… I get another coffee, read some more, wait some more, pee, wait some more, pee again, read some more, pee yet again (seriously now, this is a whole lot of peeing going on here)… and finally, I get the word that they are… sort of done.

The brakes are fixed. Costly, but fixed. The lock nuts are installed. The keyless remote… not so much.

It seems they RAN OUT OF TIME TO FIX IT. I now need to bring the car in on FRIDAY. FOR THE ENTIRE DAY. It seems they need to take the door off, open it up, and CHECK EVERY SINGLE CONNECTION. THEY HAVE BLOCKED OFF EIGHT HOURS TO FIX IT.

Mega-sigh.

So I pay the money that I was not expecting to pay to repair the brakes and have the lock nuts installed, retrieve my still-not-working keys, head out to the car, get in the car — after going through the bother of unlocking it by actually sticking the key in the lock LIKE A SUCKER — put the key in the ignition, put the car into Drive, and then… a thought makes me pause.

The pausing thought says to me, “Before you go, you should figure out where they put the lock nut key so when you go back to Canadian Tire you can point to it and say, ‘AH-HA! THERE’S YOUR BLASTED LOCK NUT KEY!’”

So I look in the cup holder, where they said they would put it.

No lock nut key.

I look in the glove compartment.

No lock nut key.

I look in every one of the nooks and crannies I had looked into the previous day, still finding the 62 napkins, 6 pens, and the same yo-yo as before, but…

No lock nut key.

Soooo… I turn the car off, head back into the dealership, and say, “Excuse me, but where did you put the lock nut key?”

The guy behind the counter leans back and says, “Joe, where did you put his lock nut key?”

And Joe — the bastard — says, “Oh. Did you want me to install the lock nuts?”

Dogs were reported to have howled over a mile away at the sound of my sigh.

30 minutes later, with the JUST INSTALLED lock nut key clenched in my grubby little paw, I drive the car home.

And by then, the sun had set on my holiday Monday.

…

So I feel that the Cinnabons I picked up on the way home were PERFECTLY JUSTIFIED.