[T3] What Type 3 god did I insult?

["Jacob Hoffman" <cobyhoff@hotmail.com>]

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I am the infamous Jacob.  I live a normal Type 3 life like the rest of you.  
I put my pants on one leg at a time.  I even take my baby out every day.  In 
fact it is a true "daily driver".  Somewhere in the recesses of the giant 
colosal space of the type 3 gods, a god was angered by me.  Perhaps I didn't 
take serious enough obsession that must be paid to aircooled vw's.  Perhaps 
I didn't think squabbling over the inteligence levels of those that drive 
the twinkies and those that drive the 3rd type was serious.  Whatever the 
reason, I have been cursed.  I left my house Friday morning in a perfectly 
functional, no strange noises, no serious oil leaks squareback.  I came home 
Sunday an embittered, synical, aircooled hater.  The first oddity that 
cropped up was that as Toby made a 3-lane dash to the rest area exit and all 
the DDB squeeled to the right to follow as he attempted to wave us by, the 
all-to-familiar deceleration rattle came back.  At that point I knew the 
welds from the second repair to my drive plate had broken loose.  Also, my 
squareback was smoking from leaked oil as bad as my '76 Campmobile that 
leaks from the valve covers.  That was new.  Martin, who was following my in 
his fastback-towing Ford Ranger informed my that he could no longer see out 
his front windshield for all of the atomized oil that my vehicle had 
deposited so evenly across the front of his car.  Upon closer inspection the 
leaking front main seal reared its head as the apparent cause.  We continued 
down the road and my rattling grew worse and worse.  Nobody would drive 
behind me for the oil bath.  Every deceleration left me with more of a sick 
feeling in my gut.  Letting off the accelerator meant certain clattering and 
crashing of metal-on-metal.  My baby was falling apart, and all I could do 
was keep up with the caravan.  I-84 E has a slight hill some miles before 
Pendleton.  As I was coasting down this hill behind Brook's beautiful green 
square, the incessant rattling of a hundred spoons on the fine china of my 
flex plate suddenly ceased.  All was smooth from the engine compartment, 
including the new swishing sound of my flex plate sliding cleanly on my 
torque convertor.  With much flashing of lights and pulling over, the DDB 
crew pulled over to my rescue.  I informed them of my situation, and it was 
determined by Martin (a king among men) that he would drive his fastback 
that was being spared the perilous journey and allow my squareback the honor 
of trailing his Ranger.  We being a clever bunch, we remembered that Auto's 
may not be towed any distance or speed with the rear wheels dragging lest 
the tranny die, so we loaded the square backwards onto the dolly.  Having 
towed my '76 Campmobile backwards before, I knew that unless the steering 
wheel was locked, the car would drift into other lanes at will.  Therefore 
we tied the steering wheel to the seat using some conveniently supplied rope 
from Mr. Peter Parker himself.  A sound plan in our minds.  As I started out 
to climb the impending hill ahead, I headed Martin's parting advice to try 
to gain as much speed before the hill to aid the Ranger's 4 cylinder engine. 
 Left.  Right.  Left. Right.  (what the hell is going on?)  I saw the 
square behind me practically jumping from wheel to wheel.  It then ripped 
the rear wheels of the truck beyond their frictional limit and into a deadly 
anarchic spin.  The pitching of the suspension brought the ground 
frighteningly close to the side window as the truck slid sideways.  The only 
thing I could think was "turn the wheels the way we're going"  apparently 
the truck thought the same thing, as the steering wheel spun that way more 
of its own accord than mine.  It wasn't enough, and the trailor whipped 
around like a slingshot, pitching the whole train facing directly west in 
the Eastbound lanes.  The immediate goal being to get out of the way of the 
oncoming semi-trucks, I attempted to pull to the side, killed it, started it 
and succeeded.  Given the gap in traffic, the lack of rolling, and the 
general well-being of me and my passenger, at least some gods held me in 
favor if not the Type 3 ones.  There on the side of 84, I used Eric's torx 
tool to disconnect my drive axles.  Eric traveling alone from Seattle 
happened to see us on the side of the road, and happened to have the correct 
tool.  Eat that type 3 gods.  I also met Hal in Parma.  Hal happened to have 
a drive plate from pulling apart an auto engine at some point in the past.  
As I understand, it is already on it's way to me.  To top off their spite, 
though, somehow I was booted from my subscription to the list, and had to 
resubscribe today.  All I can say is that regardless of what car they drive, 
these are a fine bunch of people.  I'm glad to have met you all.  That and 
my stupid Squareback can suck it, I'm not going to work on it until we've 
had some space to cool our hot tempers.

Jacob Hoffman
'71 FI AT (sorta) Squareback
'76 Westfalia Campmobile (it has a type 4 y'know.  Do I here vader calling 
my name?)

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