According to Konrad J. Friedman, the law of unintended consequences is the proposition that every undertaking, however well-intentioned, is generally accompanied by unforeseen repercussions that can overshadow the principal endeavor.
Last weekend, without telling my wife, Jennifer, that I was doing this, I undertook to save her some aggravation from the noises caused by my various vehicles back-up beepers. We live in a brick Federalist house more than big enough for our needs, behind which is a 100' x 50' pole-barn warehouse with a loading-dock bay. In the warehouse are kept the inventory, some of my car collection, and my trucks.
I have a fleet of four vehicles, used, all dependingly, on what day and what purpose I have for them. For smaller markets, I use a low-roof 2006 Dodge Sprinter with the short wheelbase. It can get into and out of places that the bigger vehicles can't. For medium size markets, I have a 2012 Mercedes-Benz Sprinter with the long wheelbase, the extended body, and the extra tall roof. For big markets, I have a 1989 Mercedes-Benz 1113. And for doing heavy merchandise pick ups, I have a 2004 Freightliner Argosy with a 26' box.
All of them have back up beepers, so that people behind them could be aware they were backing up. They are huge vehicles, even the Dodge, and I can't see what's behind me if it wasn't there when I pulled up. This lets the objects know I'm coming. But its loud. And annoying.
So I found the relay in each trucks wiring that turned the damned things on when reverse was selected. And then I wired a switch to it so it only got power when the switch turned it on. So I wouldn't need to wake up my wife or half my neighbors when I pulled in late at night and backed my truck into the warehouse. Considerate of me, right?
Well, that Thursday, business sucked. I mean it fucking sucked. I sat there, on the rear deck of my truck, presiding over $65,000 worth of clothing, at cost. Thousands of out of work and retired idiots - that wouldn't know quality if a Eleanor Thornton, the Spirit of Ecstasy herself, slapped them upside the head at the controls of a Henry Royce & Company crane - walked by, looking and ripping my merchandise apart, and then walking on.
I usually stayed until 7:30, but at 2:00, I had had it, and started packing. By 3:30, my truck was loaded, I got in, and started the ancient Mercedes-Benz diesel engine. I grabbed the shift-lever angrily, and slammed it into first, dropped the clutch, and belched out of there.
By 4:00, this being my closest market, I was pulling through the gates of our yard, and I noticed that fucking yellow Mustang that was sometimes parked across from the house when I got home. I road on our driveway specifically reinforced to handle this trucks heavy weights, pulled past the house, swung wide in the court, pushed a button to open the warehouse door, shut off that damned back-up beeper, and backed the truck in, gently whacking the loading dock with a light thud.
I got out of the truck, and walked through the warehouse door and down the brick path to my house. My wife had one of those bullshit Lexus LS460 things. It wasn't a new bullshit, mind you- it was one of those 2009 bullshits. I don't know why she bought it. How anyone can buy anything but a Benz after owning one baffles the living fuck out of me. I've three non-Mercedes engines in the entire fucking complex- the Deere diesel on our tractor, the Rolls-Royce V8 in my Silver Shadow, and that POS Toyota mill in my wife's Lexus.
But hell, she asked me for it not long after I bought that Rolls, and I couldn't use the its-not-a-Mercedes argument. She seemed to like it. God knows why. It was boring as all get out. But hey, if it makes her happy- well its her fucking car.
Oh, I like cars by the way. Especially older Mercedes-Benzes. Just so you know.
Anyway, I got walked in, threw my coat on the back of a kitchen chair, and went up to the my bedroom so I could change and shower, and then take a long bath. A really long bath.
But as I approached my bedroom door, I heard the bed squeaking and creaking. And I was all, 'What the fuck?' So I opened the door, and this asian guy was making like Brian Wilson in Farmers Daughter, cuz he was certainly plowing my wife's fields.
She saw me, and threw him off, saying: "No, wait, he didn't mean anything to me!"
You know, I've always wondered. I know it feels like shit to be cheated on. I mean I feel like shit now. But I've always wondered how the paramour feels being shoved off of themselves, being pronounced worthless, unimportant, and a bad fuck at the drop of a hat. Ever wondered?
Whenever I heard absurd poppycock being spouted by somebody in such a forceful manner, its always given me dizzy spells. I had one, and then shook my head to clear the cobwebs. Then I turned tail and walked down the stairs. Scratch one wife.
I grabbed a keyfob from a collection of them, and went out the door. I threw open a garage door, got into my 2010 CL65 AMG, and whacked the gear selector into reverse. I peeled out of my garage so fast, I almost ran over Jennifer. What a relief. I mean I might have messed up my paint job. And that would be bad, because this car cost me just north of $200k.
I whacked the gear lever into drive, and nailed the throttle. Meanwhile, she looked like she belonged on the hood of a Smokey And The Bandit firebird, because she was waving her arms and flapping her gums like some kind of deranged chicken.
But that didn't matter, because I was going a little over 65 mph 4 seconds later when I braked to go out of my driveway sideways. Auf Weidersein, Fraulein.
Unfortunately, the passenger side rear fender of my 621-hp Twin-Turbo V-12 monster brushed the side of the Mustang, hurting my plastic bumper and fucking up its metal flanks. Oops.
Four seconds after that, I was doing over a hundred, and a minute later I was getting on top of the cars 186 mph top speed, before I had to slow for an onramp onto I-276, heading to cross the Delaware into Pennsylvania. I nailed top speed as I blew over the bridge, before dropping the anchors to avoid speeding once I got off of the unpatrolled DRPA section, and into the turf of the Pennsylvania State Police.
I set the cruise control to 80 mph, and laid back for the trip to Reading.