Sunday, September 19, 2010


So, the past few weeks have been a blur. I bought one 1995 Chevy Blazer from my mechanic with the insurance check from the Mirage, and the second I brought her home, she started giving me problems.

Mighty Mechanic, who I bought her from, has been wonderful about helping me with the issues. Two days after I bought her, she stalled and wouldn't start. MM brought a flatbed trailer fifty someodd miles to pick her up and bring her back to his shop to work on her. The starter was bad.

Well, last weekend, she started acting up again and I called MM. He told me if it was alright with me, he'd like to take a week to shake her down thoroughly - this business of me constantly calling was costing both of us money. Him replacing parts and putting other jobs on the back burner, and me putting gas in the Blazer I have named QuickSilver to get to his shop. She has the 4.3 Vortec V6 under the hood, and Redneck Guitarist laughingly said it was big enough to be a V8. She's a powerful little pup.

Now, all these mechanical malfunctions have been very aggrevating. Truth be told, aggrevating is putting it lightly - the size of the inconvenience has left me near rabod with rage. Keep your distance, I bite.

Well, I called MM yesterday about picking her up. He told me she hadn't given him a single problem, the backstabbing little minx! He told me he wanted to take her out one more time, to pick up some parts, and if she still didn't buck him, then I would be free to pick her up.

Three hours later when I called, he told me she finally goofed, and majorly: she stalled in the middle of an intersection. And he asked me: whenever she did this, was my gas gauge around a quarter tank? Why, now that I think about it, yes, why?

Apparently the only problem she had was the gauge was broken. And my genius self did not realize that it was lying and telling me there was a quarter tank when in all honesty, it was empty because... When the tank is full, it works fine. But then you get down to the quarter mark, and she starts to act up with that needle, and next thing I know, I'm stalling and not wanting to start.

I feel like a royal idiot. I am catching a ride from Redhead's little sis, who lives a few blocks away from the shop, to pick her up. With a new, working gas gauge.

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