Blake Noble

So I talked to my boss and I'm off work Tuesday. Let's see where this goes ...

NEVER FORGET. NEVER FORGIVE.

Well, I officially now have two options open to me: 1998 Chevrolet Camaro, 3800 V6, 5-speed manual transmission, Victory Red, hardtop, 176,000 miles, in excellent condition inside and out but needing a first gear synchronizer. 1999 Pontiac Firebird, 3800 V6, 5-speed manual transmission, Black, T-Tops, 119,000 miles, in decent condition inside and out (needs inner door lock assemblies, a bezel that goes around the shifter boot, a driver's side taillight, and a new stereo because the display has burnt out) but in good mechanical condition. If I can have the day off from work on Tuesday, something is going to go down ... hopefully.

You can fill in your cockadoodie n's yourself!

A little German here, some Irish there, a dash of Italian here ...

LEST WE FORGET.

THREAD DOES NOT DELIVER!

You got it.

Coil spring, shock absorber ... whatever. It's all suspension bits n pieces. I've been up since 5:30 this morning, had school today from 8 am to 3 pm, then turned around and went to work from 4 pm to 11 pm. I'm tired and everything I've learned in auto tech, along with three quarters of my overall brain capacity, is hanging half way out of the window drunk.

That be redneckin slang fer whatcha'all city fellers call a "shock absorber."

That's not Kentucky, that's Tennessee.

Who blogs about their life?

Now my front passenger side strut has bought the farm. However, I think God (if there actually is one) might have listened to my rant; I now have a Camaro ready and waiting to go through the negotiation process. I'm hoping I can finally rid myself of this ugly white plague by Saturday at the earliest and no later than this coming week.

That's another thing: I no longer own an ATV or have the need to haul anything, so this truck is just that much more useless to me.

It could be a lot worse. You could be driving a Sonoma.

Have you ever owned a vehicle that you were just about to the point of actually paying someone to take it off your hands? That's the relationship I have with my truck. I hate the uncomfortable seats; I hate the depressing gray on gray on gray on gray on gray on gray interior; I hate the unconnected handling; I hate the mushy ride. I especially hate the performance; I'm beginning to hate the styling; I hate the clunky gearbox; I hate the lack of interior space; I hate the color that's impossible to keep clean. It broke down on me going to work one morning early this month and I honestly couldn't care less to try and have whatever is wrong with it fixed. It's past due for an oil change, but I don't want shell out the fifteen bucks for a jug of Pennzoil to have it taken care of; I hate the thought of spending any money on even basic maintenance for this piece of $h!. The front passenger side suspension either needs new ball joints or even a new shock, but again, I'd rather rip my own teeth out than buy anything for my Sonoma. And there is always something breaking on it. Last month, I very reluctantly spent fifty bucks to replace the driver's side mirror because I didn't want to get a ticket. I would feel guilty for even selling it to someone for the three grand its worth. I don't think there is any crime that would warrant someone having the misfortune of driving this rolling hunk of scrap metal. It's actually almost better walking. And I haven't found a car lot yet that seriously wants to trade anything for it. God, please, give me a second chance and get me out of this corner of automotive hell I'm in. If I have to drive this truck for another year, I'm going to destroy it and post the video on You Tube. I will never again own another S-Series pickup. [Rant over.]

Nah, I'm good. I'll let you keep that one. You can use it for your own blog.

My blog is up and running. There isn't anything there that you guys haven't read already, though, except for the introduction. http://directinjected.blogspot.com/ However, I'm working on another new article. And I think it's going to especially displease maybe one or two members here. :AH-HA_wink:

I went with Direct Injected.

Suggest a name for my blog. It obviously must be car-related.

Daimler, karma says your number is up.

QUOTE (moltar @ Mar 21 2009, 11:52 PM) Ah, Kentucky. My parents and my grandparents are from eastern Kentucky, Knott and Floyd Counties (Hindman, Prestonsburg). I'm sure I have some distant cousins, etc that adhere to the WT ethic. Thankfully, my folks moved to Lexington when they were young, graduated from the U of K and moved to Ohio before I was born. I've been back to rural eastern Kentucky a few times for grandparents' funerals and other occasions, and it's a pretty bleak place. Ah! We have something in common, moltar. My parents and grandparents are also from eastern Kentucky; Leslie, Harlan and Breathitt Counties. I was actually born in Leslie County and moved to Lexington with my parents when I was five. And I have to say, compared to the more wealthy parts of the state, it is pretty bleak. I mean, it's not as bad a Dianne Sawyer made it out to be, but there are more than a few places are that rouggghhhh. Eastern Kentucky really needs some industry outside of coal (and, to a lesser extent, logging), but that isn't going to happen anytime soon, unfortunately.

That's a tough act to follow. But I think I might have it topped. Back when I used to work at a Marathon station (which was located just a few miles away from Jackson County, one of the biggest white trash meccas of Kentucky), a white trash cracker redneck motherfucker pulled up to pump 3 in a green '80s Dodge Daytona that was, no lie, missing its hood. It also had a red passenger side door, which means he actually managed to find another Daytona to scavenge for parts. The passenger side headlamp was in the open position while the driver's side headlamp was in the closed position and the taillights were fixed with red tape. And, as he pulled away to go back to the backwoods shack he crawled out from, his engine sounded like a horrifying combination of Leatherface's Stihl chainsaw and a sperm whale queefing in a pool of tapicoa pudding. There was also a very disgusting Dodge Spirit that was a regular at that gas station. At some point, it had been drunkenly painted black primer (you could see the original silver-blue paint in patches underneath it), drunkenly re-painted gray primer (you could see the black primer in patches underneath that), then it had caught on fire (there were scorch-marks on the hood and roof). It still ran, surprisingly, by the means of some redneck engineering and a few rolls of duct tape. I think with the economy in the terrible shape its in, I'm going to see a lot more cars like these. White trash rednecks are going to spend a little less on automotive maintenance in order to afford their cheap beer and cheap cigarettes.

I've seen the black Hefty bag on the broken passenger side window plenty of times around here. But I've also seen a lot worse. How does a 1993 Ford Escort wagon with a do-it-yourself red Krylon paintjob sound? Also, I think a lot of people overlook this particular truck: the 1988 - 1999 C/K Silverados and Sierras. Leaving for my lunch break today, I got to see a perfect female example of a White Trash Bitch hop up into "her man's" stepside Silverado, circa 1992, with a stepside bed, front driver's side fender in primer, and the air dam missing from the front bumper. Also, I caught a glimpse of the interior, which was littered with empty Busch and Coor's cans and missing the driver's side door panel. You just can't make this shit up. Not when you live in the K-Y.

QUOTE (Satty)I hate going to Murphy USA and paying cash because there is always some trailer trash in front of me who needs to know if they have any BoGo smokes. If you're so poor you've got to resort to smoking whichever brand has "Buy 2 get 1 Free!" packs that week, you've made some real mistakes in life. I guess the White Trash Masses didn't bother to crawl out from under their Cavaliers and S10s long enough to make a trip to Walgreen's to find out that they always have some sort of deal on at least Marlboros if they're purchased in counts of two or three. Then again, if you're White Trash, that means you have to get dressed up in order to go to someplace other than Wal-Mart or Dollar General. Which means you have to rummage through the unwashed clothes on the bedroom floor of your 15 year-old Fleetwood doublewide for the Harley Davidson t-shirt that actually has sleeves, the pair of 501 Levis that haven't been made into a pair of jean shorts or that doesn't have oil stains on the knees, and the boots that have about an inch less of mud on the soles.