No Smoking Allowed

First thing I noticed when I visited Johnny's workshop was the sign:

No Smoking in Workshop

Since I was just about to light up,  I asked Johnny "why?"

"Oh my God, Perry!" he practically shouted. "Never ever, ever smoke here!"

"But why?" I asked again.  "Is there a big risk of explosion?"

"No,  there's no safety hazard."

With that, I lit up and took a long drag on my cigarette.

"NO, NO, NO, PERRY!" screamed Claude, "BY ALL THAT'S HOLY, NO!!!!"

"But why if nothing is unsafe?" I asked once more.

"That sign's for you, Perry," he answered.  "I know how absent-minded you are.  You don't smoke."

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Yes, this week I've penned a "message piece" for my Friday Fictioneers offering in response to the picture prompt above, which has come in at a neat and tidy 107 words. And the message is "No Smoking in Workshop or Anywhere Else."  

This isn't my first piece about smoking; click here if perchance you'd like to read "Mind Very Much If She Smokes."  Also don't forget to check out the smoking hot offerings of all the other Friday Fictioneers, absent-minded and otherwise, by clicking here. 

They'll light up your life, but not your cigarettes.

Dude, Where's My Car?

Cut Right! No, Cut Left! Go Long!

I have to face the fact that when it comes to losing things,  I am a Jedi Master.

I lose combs, Chapsticks,  and socks in the dryer with such regularity that many businesses work my necessary replacement purchases for such items into their budgets.  It's not unheard of for me to lose jackets and sweaters as well, although fortunately I always have beat-to-crap ones at home to wear in place of the nice new ones I've just lost.  Until I lose those too.

But notwithstanding the above, you'd think I'd be able to hang on to a 5,000 pound hunk of  sheet metal, chrome, and very hard and durable rubber.  But somehow whenever I exit a store, supermarket,  dry cleaner, or other establishment of my rather questionable choice, I invariably wind up smacking my hand against my forehead and exclaiming in grand frustration:

"Dude, where's my car?"   

Is it to the left, to the right, or straight ahead?   I have no idea!

Is it close up to the door here or in a galaxy far, far away?   I have no idea!

Is it on Level A, B, C, or D?   I have no idea!

Or is it on Level E, F, G, or H?  I have no idea!

Or is it even in this #@%! lot altogether?  I have no idea!!

Dude, where's my car?!!!  

I simply cannot remember.  It's as if my mind shuts off  along with the motor as soon as I turn off the ignition.  Seems I'm always so intent on all the stuff I have to do in any given day that I forget to pay attention to the small detail of where I've left the essential means for getting all the stuff done I've got to do.

So I begin running around in search of the lost vehicle like a crazed halfback who's been tackled one time too many. 

"I think it was  two rows to the left near the blue Honda .... NO!   CUT RIGHT! Yeah, it was four rows over to the right next to the ....  NO! LATERAL BACK!  Over there by the minivan ... NO, NOT THERE!   Okay, I'M GOING LONG!  I'M GOING LONG!!  It's gotta be in Section 34-F, not here in 36-F ......  IT'S A HAIL PERRY!!!    NO,  NOT HERE EITHER!!!"   

Although I lose cars winter, spring, summer, and fall, my most inspired misplacings tend to happen during hurricanes, hailstorms, Biblical plagues, and whenever music by ABBA is being piped into the parking lot. 

Someone needs to invent a GPS that works solely to direct you to your car, wherever you've managed to mislay it.  Such a contraption's probably already been invented, but if I can't find a massive metallic object with a broken exhaust pipe and severely dented hub caps which may be 55 feet in front of my face, how would I ever know?!

"Mr. Block," it would say, "you have once again forgotten where you left your car, am I correct?"

"That's why I bought you, Little GPS!"

"And thank you for that, Mr. Block.  Although, may I add, you are a douchebag." 

"C'mon, Dude, Where's my Car?"

"Okay, Mr. Block, first go 25 steps straight ahead to the 2011 Mercedes that you could never afford short of marrying Prince Andrew, then go 40 steps to the right."

"Done, Little GPS.  Now what?"

"Make a left, walk around the open manhole cover (you do know to do that, right?) and go 32 additional steps."

"What's going on, Little GPS?  This is the bus stop!"

"Of course."

"DUDE, WHERE'S MY CAR??!!!"

"It's in for service today.  That's why you took the bus."

 "OMG!  What a douchebag!!!"

"Yes, indeed!  Now, how about a walk to the health food store for a little Gingko Biloba?

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