Tales of The Berg Part #1
I tell a tale of a young man named, Dimberg, or, as he was known to us, "The Berg." That's not his real name, of course, I've changed his name to protect the imbecilic. For it is true, he was, and probably still is, an imbecile. I'm sure everyone has known a person like this at some point it their lives. And to all of you out there who are imbeciles and have accepted and learned to live with your affliction, I apologize and say that I mean no harm in telling my tale. If you can't laugh at yourself you need to go back to your shrink.
A little background first. I first met The Berg, during the later part of my college days while living in an off campus apartment with two motor heads named Paul and Paul. I called them, the Dual Quasi Pauls, and there are many other tales to tell around my cohabitation with those two, but they are for another time. As I recall, however, The Berg was an acquaintance of one of my room mates and I just got the dubious benefits of his visits. Mostly, the benefits of his visits consisted of The Berg drinking the last beer, eating what ever was in the fridge, regardless of its state of decomposition, then leaving when there was no indication of one of us going out for more food and beer.
He sort of kept up a relationship with Quasi Paul number one for years after we had all gone our separate ways, although I too kept in touch with Paul as we had been friends since Sunday School. It was Pauls' reputation as a good mechanic that precipitated a call to him from the Berg's mother one day while Paul and I were hanging out at his place. Mama Berg called to ask for help with a problem her son was having with his car, and the poor boy had so very few friends and would we be kind enough to come over and help. Figuring it would be good for a laugh, we agreed and headed over. We weren't prepared, however, just how much of a laugh we were in for.
The Berg had recently come into possession of a brand new MG, thanks to his mommy and daddy. Well, the boy had decided to do his own oil change on the car and had purchased everything one would need to do the job right. This included a pair of steel ramps that, when maneuvered up onto properly , raised the front end of the car enough for one to crawl under it and access the underside of the engine. A simple enough process, right? For most people, yes it is; not, however, for The Berg.
Apparently the boy was not a great reader of directions and he assumed that one needed a running start to get up on the ramps. When Paul and I got there we found that this was what he'd done but, as dumb as this was by itself, he'd made things worse by missing one ramp entirely. As a result, his shiny new red MG was lying on its' side about ten feet beyond the ramps. Somehow we both managed to keep a straight face as we walked over to the car and pushed it back over onto its' wheels. We even kept the straight faces when Mama The Berg expressed her thanks and offered us a soda for our trouble. (We were both holding cans of beer at the time.) We could contain our mirth no longer, however, when The Berg himself spoke up and asked if maybe he should try it again, faster this time. We lost it at that point and had to leave. We later learned that Papa The Berg had to call a towing company to come out and pull the car out of the bushes at the end of the driveway, tip it back onto its' wheels, and tow it to the shop for an oil change and some extensive body work.
One other item that I wish to add is that on the way home, Paul was laughing so hard that beer came squirting out of his nose all over the steering wheel. Fortunately, we were in his car and not mine.
A little background first. I first met The Berg, during the later part of my college days while living in an off campus apartment with two motor heads named Paul and Paul. I called them, the Dual Quasi Pauls, and there are many other tales to tell around my cohabitation with those two, but they are for another time. As I recall, however, The Berg was an acquaintance of one of my room mates and I just got the dubious benefits of his visits. Mostly, the benefits of his visits consisted of The Berg drinking the last beer, eating what ever was in the fridge, regardless of its state of decomposition, then leaving when there was no indication of one of us going out for more food and beer.
He sort of kept up a relationship with Quasi Paul number one for years after we had all gone our separate ways, although I too kept in touch with Paul as we had been friends since Sunday School. It was Pauls' reputation as a good mechanic that precipitated a call to him from the Berg's mother one day while Paul and I were hanging out at his place. Mama Berg called to ask for help with a problem her son was having with his car, and the poor boy had so very few friends and would we be kind enough to come over and help. Figuring it would be good for a laugh, we agreed and headed over. We weren't prepared, however, just how much of a laugh we were in for.
The Berg had recently come into possession of a brand new MG, thanks to his mommy and daddy. Well, the boy had decided to do his own oil change on the car and had purchased everything one would need to do the job right. This included a pair of steel ramps that, when maneuvered up onto properly , raised the front end of the car enough for one to crawl under it and access the underside of the engine. A simple enough process, right? For most people, yes it is; not, however, for The Berg.
Apparently the boy was not a great reader of directions and he assumed that one needed a running start to get up on the ramps. When Paul and I got there we found that this was what he'd done but, as dumb as this was by itself, he'd made things worse by missing one ramp entirely. As a result, his shiny new red MG was lying on its' side about ten feet beyond the ramps. Somehow we both managed to keep a straight face as we walked over to the car and pushed it back over onto its' wheels. We even kept the straight faces when Mama The Berg expressed her thanks and offered us a soda for our trouble. (We were both holding cans of beer at the time.) We could contain our mirth no longer, however, when The Berg himself spoke up and asked if maybe he should try it again, faster this time. We lost it at that point and had to leave. We later learned that Papa The Berg had to call a towing company to come out and pull the car out of the bushes at the end of the driveway, tip it back onto its' wheels, and tow it to the shop for an oil change and some extensive body work.
One other item that I wish to add is that on the way home, Paul was laughing so hard that beer came squirting out of his nose all over the steering wheel. Fortunately, we were in his car and not mine.
posted by Bob Parker | 1:00 PM
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