It is a commonly held misconception that just because inanimate objects don't have ears they can't hear what you're saying about them.

Oh, they can hear you.

I used to drive an '88 Ford Ranger. Not a bad truck, I'm pretty sure Ford fucked up the day they built it and used all of "good" parts on it, because that thing ran forever.

A few years after moving to the Mile High City, as graduation was looming and I had just scored a spiffy new job, I decided to trade it in and get a Dakota like I'd always wanted.

I fucked up though. I mentioned my plans to do this while I was IN the Ford. It heard me.

The laundry list of shit-that-could-go-wrong-but-never-had suddenly started to get shorter.

It was fun for a while, because it was lots of little things that gave the truck it's personality. I was the guy in the dented, beat-up, primer-colored, squeaky, missing-tailgate, no-muffler, bumper-held-on-with-bailing-wire, pickup truck.

I put the "Red" in "Neck."

Then, things just quit working. The starter could never make up it's mind as to when it wanted to actually turn. I could always get it to work, mind you, but this involved crawling under the truck and wiggling the starter while somebody cranked the ignition.

That's a great way to meet chicks, by the way.

"Excuse me, miss. Can you turn my crank while I wiggle it?"

I did my homework online and found the truck I wanted, but I once again made the mistake of talking about it while I was IN the other truck. The Ford knew it was going bye-bye, and it wasn't happy.

The dealership was 12 miles from my house and that fucker smoked from under the hood the entire way. The clutch, that up until now had only been squeaking loudly unless it was depressed a half-inch, was now making a loud grinding noise. The U-joint conked out about halfway there, and I had to put the fucking thing in 4-wheel drive just to make ANY of the wheels go. The brake master cylinder took a shit about 2 lights from the dealership, and I had to Flintstone-stop into a gas station where I jammed the fucking thing with a screwdriver to keep it from seizing up.

I pulled into dealership's parking lot, found a space, went to back in, and heard the clutch say very loudly, "Fuck This Shit!"

That was it.

That truck was fucking dead.

Later, when told by the manager that he could only offer me $700 on trade instead of the Blue Book $1100, I stifled a giggle and tried to act disappointed.

I made the same mistake recently. I've been talking about selling that goddam house while I've been INSIDE of it.

And it ain't happy.

I had a showing last night, so I picked up Asshead and we went for an extended walk in the park. It never occurred to me that neither the realtor nor the prospective buyer may not know that you have to really crank on the bathroom faucet to get it to shut off.

Or that there are certain tiles in the bathroom that you don't touch because they will fall clean off the wall and send plaster chips fucking everywhere.

Or that you never run the Garbage Disposal when... well EVER anymore.

Or that the automatic garage door doesn't really work that well when it's cold out unless you tappity-tap-tap the button a few times, instead of the one steady push.

When we got home, I was greeted by a half-open garage door, black, muddy shit in my kitchen sink, and water running freely into my plaster-chip-and-broken-tile covered bathtub.

I'm never going to sell that fucking house.

Shit, it may read this.

I didn't mean it baby, Ike loves ya baby.

On a brighter note, my cute li'l ass won me a prize at the office X-mas party. I think it was for "Best Matching Dimples" or some shit, I don't really remember much of the night.

It was downtown, at the Chop House, and it was an open bar.

Let me repeat, OPEN FUCKING BAR.

Jesus Christ, they have their own brewery there. I was in heaven.

CoWorkerBuddy suggested that I start with one of their worst-tasting beers (preferably with lower alcohol content) so that I may pace my drinking and avoid making a drunken embarassment of myself.

Apparently, what I heard was, "Drink 7 Oatmeal Stouts and 7 shots of Patron Tequila, climb on the bar, and prove to everybody that that's actually your baby picture."

I was enjoying the evening and making the LesbianHRLady and her partner laugh at my kilt (NOT what's under it, bitches), when ProjectManagerGirl came over, quite tanked as well, and offered me 50 bucks to climb on the bar and show my ass to the company.

The words "...50 bucks..." had barely exited her lips before I was mounting a bar stool and on my way up.

I never made it though.

For being short and kind of frumpy, CFOGuy is surprisingly strong and quick, and apparently knew what I was planning on doing.

I checked first thing Monday morning, though, and I'm not fired.

It probably didn't hurt that CEOGuy was watching the whole exchange, and was almost in tears when I started singing a song I apparently made up about "...what would one do for 50 bucks... ...drink Tequila something something fuck... ...Oatmeal Stout is neither too Oatmealy, nor Stouty... ...lifting my kilt now, lass, don't be pouty..."

I'll confess that I remember neither the song, nor singing it, but apparently it was a big hit.

Drinking like that though, isn't recommended in Judd's life anymore.

Waking up across town in the apartment of someone you've only known for a few hours with their Great Dane sniffing your ass, and riding the public transit as hangover-head-wrinkled-kilt-crookedly-buttoned-shirt-bleary-eyed-smokey-Tequila-smelling-guy isn't recommended either.

It was a real good time though.

So I hear.