More flair Jimmy, more flair. This exact phrase emanates from my stupid manager’s pie hole every morning. You see, he’s the manager of the restaurant where I wait tables. You may have heard of it; Jolly’s Cantina. Anyway, Jolly’s is one of those restaurants that they fill with kitsch in an attempt to manufacture some “atmosphere.” And, as a Jolly’s employee, it’s my job to fill my uniform with flair and act as jolly as possible.
The job wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for my boss, Miles. He’s one of those restaurant managers who take his role very seriously. You know; one of those super skinny guys with a tie and a zit-pocked face who runs around so fast you’d swear he eats jet fuel for breakfast. Well, Miles and I don’t quite see eye to eye on the Jolly’s uniform requirements. I don the bare minimum that the rules stipulate, but Miles sees my efforts as purely mediocre. That’s why every morning he bombards me with the flair.
When I’m not waiting tables, I out cruisin in my 2002 Dodge Ram with a Cummins diesel. This baby sits sky high on a 12” lift kit and 44” monster mudders. I’ve got an AEM intake, Edge injectors, a Superchips Flash Paq and an MBRP 5” exhaust. Needless to say, the old Dodge is one bad-ass beast of a rig.
The other night, driving home after a mind-numbing shift with Miles on my back, I got pulled over by the local cop. He’s a mean one, the kind of cop that’d give your grandma a ticket for being too old. I couldn’t believe it, but old Roscoe pulled me over for my tires. He said they were sticking out too far from under the wheel wells. When I asked Barney Miller what I was supposed to do about it, he said first pay the ticket, then get some fender flares. All I could hear was; more flair Jimmy, more flair.
When I calmed down, I realized I could use these fender flares to help solve my flair problem with Miles. If that creep wanted more flair, he was gonna get it—in a big way. My plan was to simply install the flares and then show Miles what I’d done. The next time he asks for more flair, I’ll just direct his attention to my truck. “There ya go Miles, all the flare/flair you can handle.
2 nights later I called in sick and had my shift covered by my buddy, Juan. During his break, Juan called to tell me that Miles was fuming mad and cursing my name to anyone who’d listen. He was calling me a goldbrick and a champion for mediocrity. This got me so mad that I hopped into my truck and sped down to Jolly’s to have it out with Miles.
When I spied Miles smoking a cigarette out behind Jolly’s my temper just flared. Without thinking, I mashed the throttle on that old Cummins and in a billow of black smoke I launched the Dodge right over Miles’ Merkur XR4Ti—monster truck style. Those big mudders were churning up glass and metal, throwing debris all over Jolly’s back lot. The best part wasn’t the stupid look on Miles’ face, but the way my new fender flares kept the flying debris from scratching my rig!
In the end, I lost my job, but I have a new one down at the quarry. The hours and pay are great, and I don’t have to deal with Miles anymore. And, the only flair I have to contend with is the cool set of fender flares that are still doing a great job of protecting my truck.
The job wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for my boss, Miles. He’s one of those restaurant managers who take his role very seriously. You know; one of those super skinny guys with a tie and a zit-pocked face who runs around so fast you’d swear he eats jet fuel for breakfast. Well, Miles and I don’t quite see eye to eye on the Jolly’s uniform requirements. I don the bare minimum that the rules stipulate, but Miles sees my efforts as purely mediocre. That’s why every morning he bombards me with the flair.
When I’m not waiting tables, I out cruisin in my 2002 Dodge Ram with a Cummins diesel. This baby sits sky high on a 12” lift kit and 44” monster mudders. I’ve got an AEM intake, Edge injectors, a Superchips Flash Paq and an MBRP 5” exhaust. Needless to say, the old Dodge is one bad-ass beast of a rig.
The other night, driving home after a mind-numbing shift with Miles on my back, I got pulled over by the local cop. He’s a mean one, the kind of cop that’d give your grandma a ticket for being too old. I couldn’t believe it, but old Roscoe pulled me over for my tires. He said they were sticking out too far from under the wheel wells. When I asked Barney Miller what I was supposed to do about it, he said first pay the ticket, then get some fender flares. All I could hear was; more flair Jimmy, more flair.
When I calmed down, I realized I could use these fender flares to help solve my flair problem with Miles. If that creep wanted more flair, he was gonna get it—in a big way. My plan was to simply install the flares and then show Miles what I’d done. The next time he asks for more flair, I’ll just direct his attention to my truck. “There ya go Miles, all the flare/flair you can handle.
2 nights later I called in sick and had my shift covered by my buddy, Juan. During his break, Juan called to tell me that Miles was fuming mad and cursing my name to anyone who’d listen. He was calling me a goldbrick and a champion for mediocrity. This got me so mad that I hopped into my truck and sped down to Jolly’s to have it out with Miles.
When I spied Miles smoking a cigarette out behind Jolly’s my temper just flared. Without thinking, I mashed the throttle on that old Cummins and in a billow of black smoke I launched the Dodge right over Miles’ Merkur XR4Ti—monster truck style. Those big mudders were churning up glass and metal, throwing debris all over Jolly’s back lot. The best part wasn’t the stupid look on Miles’ face, but the way my new fender flares kept the flying debris from scratching my rig!
In the end, I lost my job, but I have a new one down at the quarry. The hours and pay are great, and I don’t have to deal with Miles anymore. And, the only flair I have to contend with is the cool set of fender flares that are still doing a great job of protecting my truck.
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