The mind of a scam artist idiot.
By Kris Marciniak

I cant believe that this was sent out with the hope that they would have any success. I got this today in my email and it killed me. If you think that this is an ACTUAL email from Citibank. Send ME your pin and credit card number. I’d be happy to take it off your hands. Unreal.

Sothern California is car heaven. All the latest designs are created here, all the greatest cars in the world can be found here. I’ve seen more GT3’s then Boxsters. More 911’s then Cayennes. This is first class “car guy” land, where after eating at Macaroni Grill you can hop into your 1957 Porsche 356 1600 Speedster. No one else semed to notice the piece of iconic motoring history parked off to the side between an 02 Maxima and a AMG Mercedes. I stood paralyzed as I looked at one of the first cars to break the 100MPH barrier in the 50’s. It woudn’t suprise me to discover that it was original and not a kit. It was clean, well worn leather seats, with slightly faded chrome. Not to shabby a car to add to your collection for a mere $70-100K.

After that, the middle-aged guy driving the beat up 80’s Ferrari 308 Quatrovalve did nothing for me. I mean – “Get off Miami Vice! Buy a real Ferrari!” At least a 355, or for you sophisticate speed freaks: The Maserati Coupe’ – “Shit, I saw two of those at IKEA…”

And then there’s driving in so-cal. The speed limit is 50 everywhere! Two lane traffic, on coming traffic, non-divided, school zone – FIFTY! I’ve been honked at for going – get this – slow… Yeah, me – Mr. Rally. I’m coasting along at 40, thinking, ‘I’m doing my God given 5 over’ and BEEP! “Oh – the speed limit is WHAT?!” People do drive different out here. It reminds me of Vermont drivers because they are always totally random, but just a bit more aggressive.

Nothing a kid that grew up driving into Boston and a girl from Jersey can’t handle.

What a load of bullshit.
The landlord stopped by this morning. *knock, knock, knock. Hmm, UPS? Some sort of mail delivery? I know Tine’s not going to be home until much later. I scooted into the other room to put on pants. *knock, knock, knock. And then the sound that scared me. The tell tale jingle of keys. I knew who it is before I even got to the door. He might as well have held up a sign that said: “Since you don’t answer – I’ll help myself.”

I swing the door open. “Can I help you?!” “Yeah, I need to show the apartment.” It appears he was not expecting a 6′4″ 200lb man inside lil’ole Christine’s place. “Today?!” I ask in horror. “Well, like in a half hour…” I ponder this for a mere second. “Um. No. No, today would be bad.” I see that he’s about to take control of the conversation and tell ME when it would be a good time to clean up everything, store my valuables, and let prospective renters trapse through the place. “Did you talk to Christine about this?” I even gave him a way to lie. “Did you try to call? Because she had the phone disconnected the other day…” He quietly says “No… Are you here durning the day?” I absolutely do not like when people know my comings and goings. “In and out, depending on the day… I’m Kris by the way.” A quick shake of hands. “Bill,” he replies. “Bill, why don’t I give you my phone number, and you give me a call when you want to show the place.” He accepts the note and asks when Christine would be moving out. “End of August.” Just like it says in the letter she gave you with the last rent check I mutter as I close the door on Bill.

If you need to get in my apartment and it’s an emergency. Break the door down. I will accept the fact that if I’m having a heart attack, and it takes you 16.4 more seconds to give critical care – I’ll deal. (But – not just for the smell of burnt popcorn!) Change the locks people. Especially you single ladies. There is a creepy guy who does nothing but cleaning and maintainance on the apartments. Which means that he sees who comes and goes. If Mr. Creepy Guy decides one day to do a little more than house cleaning: he’s got keys!

The new deadbolt just went on. No more suprise inspections. At least for this last month.

So, this little p0cketb1ke is zooming up and down the street outside Christine’s apartment last night. A busy city street is no place for these things. Don’t take me for some p0ket b1ke hater. I grew up with motorcycles. I’ve even ridden one of these in a closed off parking lot before. On private tracks or closed areas they can be fun – but they need to be taken off the streets.

The cops show up after the kid makes about 100 passes up and down the street. I snap the above picture and watch in horror as he is let go shortly after to continue his car dodging exploits. They are still street legal in MA.

Don’t worry kids – CA, AZ, and other states have banned them. Soon…
(I broke p0ektb1k3 into leet – so I don’t get googled 1.2 bajillion times from kids looking for them.)

screwvenir (skrew-von-eer) ; 1. A collectible item or souvenir that, by obtaining it, screwed you over in some way or another. 2. A trophy for “dead last but finished.” 3. Any simple bolt, fastener or clamp that takes longer then 1 hour to remove. 4. See Figure.

I was going to call this “The stupid’ist thing ever.”, but after doing a patent search for 3307731 & 3604591 (The numbers I found on the device. Thanks Google and uspto.gov) I have upgraded it to “A severe pain in the ass.” It looks like some sort of weird unmentionable marital aid, but actually it was shoved into the oil pan of my Ford F-150 Pimp Van. I had just finished some major repair work on the old girl and I was ready to do a oil change, when I came upon this piece sticking out of where a nice drain plug bolt should be. James and I determined that it was rubber and tried to quickly pry it out of the hole whilst we getting covered in 3 year old motor oil. ‘Quickly’ and ‘pry’ are not what happened. You see this baby is designed never to come out again. Ever. The concept is: You, or your stupid mechanic, strips the threads of the oil pan drain plug. Seeing as an oil pan is like $200 they decide to shove this “device” in. It is supposed to have a wing nut on it to compress the “bulb” into the “washer.” About 2 months after you bought this $2 piece of silliness, the wing nut and bolt have rusted and broken off.

Now, here’s why it’s silly. You can’t really drain the oil anymore with this thing stopped up in there. It will “leak” no problem, but there’s no more “draining” ever to be had. It just kind of runs down your hand when you try to pry at the rubber. I bet no one reading this could sit still for the time it would take 6 quarts of oil to slurp through. It also never seals tight again because of the lost rusty wing nut.

The universe could go in two directions here. Both of them will send me screaming into the woods. 1. “We lost the oil pan plug and decided to shove one of these things in here.” 2. “We stripped the threads a little and decided to shove one of these babies in.” It’s 50/50 for me. I know the previous owner well enough to know that “maybe” he tried one of these gizmos, but he didn’t do work on the van in the first place, so I’ll lay blame on some random Ford mechanic.

So, How did I get it out? Answer: Pliers, Vice Grips, screwdriver, 700 Ft/Lbs. of downward force. I have never been completely coated up to my elbows in oil. I have done countless suspension installs, 2 head gaskets, and a MOTOR SWAP. Still not this dirty. I guess I should have wedged the pliers in, waited for the 2 gallons of oil to seep through, and pried at it in the morning… Now way was I going to let it win. “James – Hand me a towel!” It doesn’t look it, but this sucker can stretch 3″ out. After about 30 minutes of prying it popped out, spewing oil into my face and hair.

Are the threads stripped THAT badly? We’ll see. A proper tool to fix them is about six more dollars then that rubber plug. Are they stripped AT ALL? I’m going to pick up a new bolt tomorrow and see. Let me say this: The threads better be destroyed. As if marred by a tractor blade, in some fluke accident, where the van was undamaged besides the gash into the oil pan drain plug threads. This is the only acceptable level for me not to go into a wooded rampage.
Continue reading Screwvenir – Definition. →

Okay… so much for sleeping… It had to be one of the loudest thunder claps I’ve ever heard. The apartment shook. I expected to lose power – but here I am posting.

Now the fire alarm is going off because it’s ultra sensitive to lightning. Go outside and stand in the rain? Fuck that. I’ll huddle here and see how long it takes them to press “reset,” while the 15,000Hz 100dB screech goes on in the hallway…

Oh – they’re here. 23 minutes – a new record.