I made a serioso omission in my previous post about television’s finest works of art. To the T family, and especially Spartacus, I humbly apologize for leaving “Ice Loves Coco” off my list of shows worth funding the evil apparatus commonly known as Comcast. Clearly E! hit the jackpot by featuring your wholesome, everyday interactions during its primetime Tuesday slot. I’m confident that the Emmy is on its way… hold on tight.
Speaking of which, last night’s ILC episode touched on a subject near and dear to my heart: learning how to drive.
It’s unfortunately not part of this clip, but this episode’s greatest moment was when Ice admitted that he didn’t need an automobile afficionado like his precious flower of a wife to teach him how to drive… he taught his own damn self!
PREACH, Ice T, PREACH! Hence Muffnut’s road rule #1: Driver’s ed is for piss-ants.
Now for some real Rabbi Shechter shiz…..
Back when I was just a hormonal fifteen year-old just embarking on my Modest Mouse phase, I used to have to truck my tush up HOH’s very own K2, Villard Avenue, just to get home from school everyday. I was like a modern-day Abraham goddamn Lincoln walking five miles on a dirt road just to get to the nearest schoolhouse! In other words, it was a crock, and I was not about to stand for it for one minute.
So after a particularly punishing trek up the hill one afternoon, I decided to put an end to the madness and teach myself how to drive, just like my homeboy Ice T. I hopped into our glorious 1998 Saab convertible, put the top down, and looked down at the floor. What did I see, you ask? Well, two pedals of course! Using my unusually acute reasoning skills, I literally put two and two together: two pedals, one for each foot.
Which brings me to road rule number 2: There is absolutely nothing wrong with driving with two feet. Even Wikipedia agrees with me.
Once it came to Linda and Larry’s attention that I was a driving prodigy, they were overjoyed. Some uptight politically correct helicopter parents might have grounded my bad ass for stealing their wheels. But mine are logical, awesome people who knew that my whipping around Hastings without a license only meant that A) they wouldn’t have to drop me off at school in the morning ever again and B) I could be counted on to do even more of their favorite activity: CHORES! So off I drove into the sunset with my band of merry chickenheads, Z100 blaring. Road rule number 3? Flying (or driving) under the radar is for fludges.
A mere matter of months before my road test, someone (we are still tracking our leads) called up the HOHPD and said the following, roughly verbatim: “Hello, officer. Margaret Feinberg has been gallivanting around Hastings with all of her friends in a Saab convertible, making a ruckus and driving without a license.”
Anywhobity, it turns out that the Feinbergs don’t have the greatest rapport with the Hastings police. Especially a certain Officer “G”, whom we evaded on many an occasion when he was looking to book us for hosting the best underage house parties known to man. Speaking of which, watch out ’cause imma bout to hit you with rule number 4: Always ask for a warrant!
When given the opportunity, Officer G naturally orchestrated a dramatic stake-out at the high school worthy of America’s Most Wanted: think lots of yellow cones, three police cars, and a tow truck. When he pulled me over, he said that not only was I going to court, but poor Linda and Larry would be charged as accessories to my crime! Not Linda and Larry you heartless donut-muncher! Aw hell no.
Luckily, the judge knew it was all harmless hogwash and let the whole gang off with a smirk and a $50 fine. I got to take my road test on time, and though I failed twice, I am now a fully legal driver who uses two feet.
The moral of the story is that you simply cannot hold me down. Hit it Nicki.