Infernal car alarms are enough to drive someone nuts, especially when the device goes off in the middle of the night, and the owner of that respective vehicle doesn’t hear its habitually blaring horn to shut it off.
This has been going on outside my flat in the parking lot for the past forty-five minutes. Inside the black-hole closet sits a nice four-pound sledgehammer that I’d love to send sailing off my terrace, to land through the front windshield of that car, giving the alarm something to blast about.
My only alternative for not getting charged with larceny and locked up in the local hoosegow is for the incessant noise to stop when the vehicle’s battery goes dead. I’m hoping it’s not a Sears DieHard; although, they’re not available new anymore. However, I bet many are still around.
Wish I knew to whom that car belongs. I’d be pounding on their apartment’s front door to alert them, giving me upmost satisfaction. What’s worse is when they finally do hear the alarm and come outside to reset it, the damned horn starts to honk in continually short spurts, fifteen minutes later, after which was enough time for the owner to fall back asleep.
Surely if the neighbors from hell still lived downstairs from me, they would have called the cops already. What could the police do about that situation anyway? I know. They could use a slim-jim to unlock the door, pull the hood latch and disconnect the battery: problem solved!
The only good thing about this situation was the noise woke me up to write this weekly tirade, which is a few hours overdue. I was pooped from the day’s festivities—yesterday was my birthday, thank you very much—and took an extended nap, taking me way past the self-imposed deadline of midnight, Saturday night. I needed something to write about nevertheless.
Ah, finally, there’s silence. The horn has ceased blowing. It wasn’t the battery that went dead. The alarm would have begun to sound quite comical, like when Donald Duck gets knocked out by a sledgehammer to the head during one of his extended, angry rants:
The aforementioned four-pound sledge in the black-hole closet served me well when I was a service technician. The wooden handle broke one day, for which I welded a 3/4″ pipe to the head. Never had to replace the handle again. A mechanic’s credo states: if it doesn’t work, use a bigger hammer.
That was like with the old, tube-driven television sets of the dark ages, the ones that took five minutes to warm up before they came on. My dad kept a hammer close by for when it didn’t. Seemed to work every time.
There goes that car alarm again. I hope the owner hasn’t fallen back asleep yet. A hard rain a fallin’, as Bob Dylan once sang. Perhaps that’s what is triggering the device. Now, to dig through that black-hole closet, in which all my old electronic equipment, spare Mini-Cooper tires, drills, woodworking tools and whatever else I don’t want to throw out, are piled high and surround the tool box in which that illustrious sledgehammer is encased.
I may have to call somebody to get bailed out. Please keep your cellphones turned on. Thanks for stopping by and allowing me yet another diatribe, and, as always, for your continual support.