FooDaddy the Navigator

FooDaddy Navigators would be a good name for a tire or a football team. Just thought I'd point that out to those of you who are a little slow on the moron uptake. Huh.

The little gauge that shows how much gasoline is lurking in my fuel tank has the words "Premium Fuel Only" underneath it. The important thing to keep in mind here is man's tendency to see a rule, and whether he follows it or not, he fantasizes about breaking it. Or maybe just bending it.

Like that rule that you're not supposed to put entire potatoes or silverware or shotgun shells in your garbage disposal.

So after years of putting premium in my tank, I decided to not let a little circle on my dashboard boss me around. "Hey. Fuel circle," I said in my gruffest, hairiest voice. "Whatchoo gonna do if'n I puts some regglar in thar?"

It sat on the dash, mockingly inert.

"Roight then. Regglar 'tis then! Yer in fer it, dash circle!"

I was firm.

Armed with a tank of fuel that castrates my car in terms of performance, I've been spending the last couple hours getting lost around Grand Rapids. It's city driving, so no hot chicks have noticed that my car is slower than usual, and in fact, due (of course) to my stealthy Ninja Cloaking Stealthitude, they haven't noticed me at all. Score one for me.

I'm not much of a navigator, but I did manage to find a joint with an Internet connection that allowed me to write this post. Before you start cheering and strewing me with cupcakes and applause, let me point out that I've been to this place before. It's a barber shop where a friend of mine works.

You know what? Why don't you go ahead and start strewing them cupcakes anyhow. I couldn't find my way out of my apartment's parking lot if it weren't for the signs, so the fact that I was able to locate the shop deserves some confections.

If I were Columbus searching for trade routes, I would have ended up on Neptune. The crappy side.

Okay. Now I'm going to try to find my way back home before I run out of gas.