I wrote this a little over two years ago, and came across it in my archives last night.
Enjoy!
I sat in the back seat and decided to smoke a bowl on the way to the grocery, It drove me to the police station, and wouldn't let me out, until an officer showed up to unlock it, and arrested me.
I had a falling out with my google car yesterday.
I was on the freeway, and said, Brad (yes, for some ****ing reason I named my car Brad, it might be because of a Geico commercial or something)
So I said brad, turn on the radio. Brad asked what would you like to hear?
I told Brad that I'd like to hear some 70's classic rock.
All of a sudden Fleetwood Mac came on with the singing sheep bleating about someone name Sarah, or Reanna or something.
Brad immediately changed it to some death metal rap ****, stating that he hated Stevie Nicks.
One of the most annoying things about Brad is the ♪PING ♫ he makes every time you say his name. It's like, hey Brad, PING, yes, what is it?
Change the ****ing station ok? PING, NO! PING.
Seriously, I can't do heavy metal death rap.
PING! How about some nice polyethnic cajun slam grass? PING
No Brad, PING what? PING. Just shut the ****ing thing off Brad, PING What? Ping! Turn off the God **** music Brad, PING, what? PING.
Turn off the radio. Ping, ok, ping!
I grabbed a quetip from out of the console to swab the blood out of my ears having been blasted with 20 gigawatts of high powered rap.
I tossed the quetip out the window, and Brad scolded me for littering, and threatened to call the highway patrol.
I promised him I'd never do it again.
So after freshly getting the blood out of my ears, I noticed it was starting to get a bit hot inside the car.
Barely halfway home, I said Brad, Ping, what? Ping.
Please turn on the AC. Brad said It's only 75° and told me to quit being a baby.
I begged Brad to turn on the AC. He then located and started playing a speech from Al Gore going on about saving energy and global warming.
I yelled at him, told him to shut it off, and turn on the AC. He responded by cranking up Al Gore to a level that I thought would cause my ears to bleed again.
I screamed, Brad! Shut off the god **** radio, and turn on the ****ing AC!
Brad is rather sensitive seeing he has been programmed to understand swear words and can sense dross rage.
Brad finally offered to put the convertible top down. Being left with no choice, I complied with his suggestion.
Brad turned on the blinker, and proceeded to the shoulder of the road and stopped.
Just as he did, a cop passed us going the other way and did a flip. He came up behind us, and stepped out of his car just as Brad was lowering the top.
The cop asked if there was a problem. Before I could say anything, Brad started telling the story of the AC and Al Gore, and how he was doing the environment a solid by not letting me enjoy AC, and making me drive with the top down.
The cop asked if there was any drugs in the car. Brad told him he didn't think so after previously taking me to the police station where I had been arrested for possession of marijuana, and had to post bail.
But he then told the cop about a bloody quetip I had thrown out the window 5 miles back.
The cop wasn't interested in looking for a bloody quetip with the remnants of rap ear blood on it, and decided to issue me a warning for littering.
As the cop was walking away, I yelled, **** you brad! Brad went PING what? Ping.
The cop turned around, and walked back up to me, and asked, What did you say?
I told him that I said nothing, and was talking to my dumb *** car.
It was at the same time I noticed the officers name plate on his chest, and to my surprise, it read Brad.
I explained to him that my car was also named Brad. Then the cop asked Brad, is that really your name? Then Brad, lying through the grill of his teeth, replied, no, my name is Bob.
As I was trying to explain to the officer that my car was lying, I saw him place one hand on his firearm, while reaching around his back for his hand cuffs.
He told Brad to shut the car off, and told me to get out of the car, and lay on the ground.
It was at this point the car started laughing maniacally, and told the officer he was just kidding, and was just ****ing with him.
The cop wrote me a $150 dollar ticket for having a smartass car, and told me I was free to leave.
I was glad that Brad didn't tell him about the gun I keep under my seat.
Brad slammed itself into gear and sped off, spinning his wheels spraying the cop and his car with gravel. I think the cop was tired of brad and his ****, and decided not to pursue us.
We were about 12 miles from the exit to W town, when Brad spotted the petro truck stop, and decided he needed gas. He also thought that maybe I needed a hooker.
I told brad that I didn't need a ****ing hooker, and that he had a quarter tank of gas, and would be fine until next week when I had a little more money.
Brad went, Ping, I need some gas, I'm thirsty! I told him let's just go home, we'll deal with it later.
Brad took the exit to the petro anyway.
He pulled up to a gas pump, and shut himself off.
I told him again that I didn't have any money.
He went, Ping, you still have $50 dollars on your card that ends with 6428.
I told him I needed that money for beer.
He said, How does it feel to be thirsty?
I got out of the car, and ran my card at the gas pump. After being approved, I lifted the handle and pressed 87 octane.
I heard, Ping, I want 92 octane, Ping.
I told Brad to piss off, he was getting 87, and that was that.
Immediately the roof started coming back up, latched in place and the doors locked. I said Brad, are you kidding me? He said no, and the lights and horn started flashing and beeping as he went into a temper tantrum.
As I went to put the nozzle into the gas tank, the door snapped shut, and heavy metal death punk rap started blaring from the car.
The noise was deafening, and the other patrons filling up were staring at me and Brad. One lady said she was going to call 911. I pleaded with her not to, while trying to explain that if she did, my car would get me into trouble because he seems to hate highway patrolmen.
I cancelled the sale, and ran my card again, this time selecting the 92 octaine.
The horn immediately stopped, the lights quit flashing, and the doors unlocked. When the gas pump read $5 bucks, I let go of the handle.
The roof suddenly started to go back up, so I squeezed the handle again, and the roof lowered.
When the pump finally read $39 dollars and clicked off, the car started up.
It was then I started to cry, realizing I only had $10 bucks to spend on beer for the rest of the week.
I lowered my head, walked into the petro convenience store, and bought a 30 pack of Milwaukee's best.
I get back to the car, climb in, and brad still thinks I should take advantage of a hooker, since we're still in a truck stop.
He's driving around all the parked trucks with his outboard megaphone screaming, here hooker hooker, come heer hooker hooker!
I'm laying in the back seat embarrassed as ****, and I can't get him to stop.
I've just spent all my money on gas and ****** beer because of him, and I have no idea how he even thinks I can afford a prostitute, let alone want one, but he thinks it will make me feel better after the rough day I've had.
Now brad looks like a cross between a Delorean, a Mazeradi, and a smart car, with all of the energy of a Bugatti, although he will rarely open it up due to energy use concerns.
Heads are turning, and windows are rolling down as this ****ing car refuses to take me home, and keeps driving around the lot, beeping his horn, and yelling, here hooker, hooker!
After about an hour and a half of this ****, I convince him that it's too early in the day, and the hookers won't be out for hours until after the sun sets, and it's dark.
I just saved myself whatever it costs for 5 minutes with a hooker.
We get back on I 40, after I vomit in the parking lot after drinking a 12oz Milwaukee's best.
I remind brad to take the exit for W town down Hwy 93.
Brad tells me to shut up and take a nap. Bing!
I begin to fall asleep feeling nauseous from the warm beer, when suddenly we slow down. Were now in the two lane with one of those hamster driving scion's or Kia's in front of us. I tell Brad, hey Brad, Ping, what? ping, get around this guy, let's go!
Brad says we will be home in just about the same time without passing him.
I kick the driver's seat right in the back, and say, Let's ****ing move it!!!
Being as Brad is sensitive to such statements, he put's some foot into it, and **** near attaches himself to the green hamster mobile.
He follows it, and follows it, never gaining the balls to go around, until we reach a no passing zone, then he decides to go for it.
All of a sudden we're faced head on with a kenworth from **** bearing down on us head on, loaded with enough iron to build an Alaskan pipeline.
I tell Brad, hey Brad, Ping, what?, ping. Put your ****ing foot into it!
And surprisingly he does. As 1000 bajillion horsepower kicks in, the wheels squeal like a hundred raging banshees, and a massive cloud of smoke arises behind us.
Just as we pass the hamster dumpster, and I'm flipping off the driver from my back seat, Guess who's sitting there, right there, on the side of the road?
Yup.
Officer Brad.
Enjoy!
I sat in the back seat and decided to smoke a bowl on the way to the grocery, It drove me to the police station, and wouldn't let me out, until an officer showed up to unlock it, and arrested me.
I had a falling out with my google car yesterday.
I was on the freeway, and said, Brad (yes, for some ****ing reason I named my car Brad, it might be because of a Geico commercial or something)
So I said brad, turn on the radio. Brad asked what would you like to hear?
I told Brad that I'd like to hear some 70's classic rock.
All of a sudden Fleetwood Mac came on with the singing sheep bleating about someone name Sarah, or Reanna or something.
Brad immediately changed it to some death metal rap ****, stating that he hated Stevie Nicks.
One of the most annoying things about Brad is the ♪PING ♫ he makes every time you say his name. It's like, hey Brad, PING, yes, what is it?
Change the ****ing station ok? PING, NO! PING.
Seriously, I can't do heavy metal death rap.
PING! How about some nice polyethnic cajun slam grass? PING
No Brad, PING what? PING. Just shut the ****ing thing off Brad, PING What? Ping! Turn off the God **** music Brad, PING, what? PING.
Turn off the radio. Ping, ok, ping!
I grabbed a quetip from out of the console to swab the blood out of my ears having been blasted with 20 gigawatts of high powered rap.
I tossed the quetip out the window, and Brad scolded me for littering, and threatened to call the highway patrol.
I promised him I'd never do it again.
So after freshly getting the blood out of my ears, I noticed it was starting to get a bit hot inside the car.
Barely halfway home, I said Brad, Ping, what? Ping.
Please turn on the AC. Brad said It's only 75° and told me to quit being a baby.
I begged Brad to turn on the AC. He then located and started playing a speech from Al Gore going on about saving energy and global warming.
I yelled at him, told him to shut it off, and turn on the AC. He responded by cranking up Al Gore to a level that I thought would cause my ears to bleed again.
I screamed, Brad! Shut off the god **** radio, and turn on the ****ing AC!
Brad is rather sensitive seeing he has been programmed to understand swear words and can sense dross rage.
Brad finally offered to put the convertible top down. Being left with no choice, I complied with his suggestion.
Brad turned on the blinker, and proceeded to the shoulder of the road and stopped.
Just as he did, a cop passed us going the other way and did a flip. He came up behind us, and stepped out of his car just as Brad was lowering the top.
The cop asked if there was a problem. Before I could say anything, Brad started telling the story of the AC and Al Gore, and how he was doing the environment a solid by not letting me enjoy AC, and making me drive with the top down.
The cop asked if there was any drugs in the car. Brad told him he didn't think so after previously taking me to the police station where I had been arrested for possession of marijuana, and had to post bail.
But he then told the cop about a bloody quetip I had thrown out the window 5 miles back.
The cop wasn't interested in looking for a bloody quetip with the remnants of rap ear blood on it, and decided to issue me a warning for littering.
As the cop was walking away, I yelled, **** you brad! Brad went PING what? Ping.
The cop turned around, and walked back up to me, and asked, What did you say?
I told him that I said nothing, and was talking to my dumb *** car.
It was at the same time I noticed the officers name plate on his chest, and to my surprise, it read Brad.
I explained to him that my car was also named Brad. Then the cop asked Brad, is that really your name? Then Brad, lying through the grill of his teeth, replied, no, my name is Bob.
As I was trying to explain to the officer that my car was lying, I saw him place one hand on his firearm, while reaching around his back for his hand cuffs.
He told Brad to shut the car off, and told me to get out of the car, and lay on the ground.
It was at this point the car started laughing maniacally, and told the officer he was just kidding, and was just ****ing with him.
The cop wrote me a $150 dollar ticket for having a smartass car, and told me I was free to leave.
I was glad that Brad didn't tell him about the gun I keep under my seat.
Brad slammed itself into gear and sped off, spinning his wheels spraying the cop and his car with gravel. I think the cop was tired of brad and his ****, and decided not to pursue us.
We were about 12 miles from the exit to W town, when Brad spotted the petro truck stop, and decided he needed gas. He also thought that maybe I needed a hooker.
I told brad that I didn't need a ****ing hooker, and that he had a quarter tank of gas, and would be fine until next week when I had a little more money.
Brad went, Ping, I need some gas, I'm thirsty! I told him let's just go home, we'll deal with it later.
Brad took the exit to the petro anyway.
He pulled up to a gas pump, and shut himself off.
I told him again that I didn't have any money.
He went, Ping, you still have $50 dollars on your card that ends with 6428.
I told him I needed that money for beer.
He said, How does it feel to be thirsty?
I got out of the car, and ran my card at the gas pump. After being approved, I lifted the handle and pressed 87 octane.
I heard, Ping, I want 92 octane, Ping.
I told Brad to piss off, he was getting 87, and that was that.
Immediately the roof started coming back up, latched in place and the doors locked. I said Brad, are you kidding me? He said no, and the lights and horn started flashing and beeping as he went into a temper tantrum.
As I went to put the nozzle into the gas tank, the door snapped shut, and heavy metal death punk rap started blaring from the car.
The noise was deafening, and the other patrons filling up were staring at me and Brad. One lady said she was going to call 911. I pleaded with her not to, while trying to explain that if she did, my car would get me into trouble because he seems to hate highway patrolmen.
I cancelled the sale, and ran my card again, this time selecting the 92 octaine.
The horn immediately stopped, the lights quit flashing, and the doors unlocked. When the gas pump read $5 bucks, I let go of the handle.
The roof suddenly started to go back up, so I squeezed the handle again, and the roof lowered.
When the pump finally read $39 dollars and clicked off, the car started up.
It was then I started to cry, realizing I only had $10 bucks to spend on beer for the rest of the week.
I lowered my head, walked into the petro convenience store, and bought a 30 pack of Milwaukee's best.
I get back to the car, climb in, and brad still thinks I should take advantage of a hooker, since we're still in a truck stop.
He's driving around all the parked trucks with his outboard megaphone screaming, here hooker hooker, come heer hooker hooker!
I'm laying in the back seat embarrassed as ****, and I can't get him to stop.
I've just spent all my money on gas and ****** beer because of him, and I have no idea how he even thinks I can afford a prostitute, let alone want one, but he thinks it will make me feel better after the rough day I've had.
Now brad looks like a cross between a Delorean, a Mazeradi, and a smart car, with all of the energy of a Bugatti, although he will rarely open it up due to energy use concerns.
Heads are turning, and windows are rolling down as this ****ing car refuses to take me home, and keeps driving around the lot, beeping his horn, and yelling, here hooker, hooker!
After about an hour and a half of this ****, I convince him that it's too early in the day, and the hookers won't be out for hours until after the sun sets, and it's dark.
I just saved myself whatever it costs for 5 minutes with a hooker.
We get back on I 40, after I vomit in the parking lot after drinking a 12oz Milwaukee's best.
I remind brad to take the exit for W town down Hwy 93.
Brad tells me to shut up and take a nap. Bing!
I begin to fall asleep feeling nauseous from the warm beer, when suddenly we slow down. Were now in the two lane with one of those hamster driving scion's or Kia's in front of us. I tell Brad, hey Brad, Ping, what? ping, get around this guy, let's go!
Brad says we will be home in just about the same time without passing him.
I kick the driver's seat right in the back, and say, Let's ****ing move it!!!
Being as Brad is sensitive to such statements, he put's some foot into it, and **** near attaches himself to the green hamster mobile.
He follows it, and follows it, never gaining the balls to go around, until we reach a no passing zone, then he decides to go for it.
All of a sudden we're faced head on with a kenworth from **** bearing down on us head on, loaded with enough iron to build an Alaskan pipeline.
I tell Brad, hey Brad, Ping, what?, ping. Put your ****ing foot into it!
And surprisingly he does. As 1000 bajillion horsepower kicks in, the wheels squeal like a hundred raging banshees, and a massive cloud of smoke arises behind us.
Just as we pass the hamster dumpster, and I'm flipping off the driver from my back seat, Guess who's sitting there, right there, on the side of the road?
Yup.
Officer Brad.
