Unpolluting The World

Recently my DeLorean spent a few weeks at my mechanic's being tuned. But the tuning was nearly impossible due to a failed 02 sensor. In order to combat the black, fuel-laden exhaust belching out the DeLorean's exhaust, I ordered a new oxygen sensor ($27) from PJ Grady's in New York and installed the sucker myself.

First, I jacked up the car and slid some random junk underneath so it wouldn’t fall on my head. You know, oily rags, plastic gas cans, a couple of kittens and a bag of popcorn.

I slid underneath with a wrench and unscrewed the oxygen sensor. It was so crusty that bits of black carbon fell from it when I tapped it. And not the delicious carbon you get from burning bacon either.

I had to remove the rear driver’s-side wheel to reach the sensor’s connector. While it was off I examined the brakes. I have to say they looked pretty darn fabulous. And the 10.5 inch discs were as smooth as a baby's ass. If babies had smooth, rock-hard steel asses.

I pulled the bright blue wire through the frame and unplugged it. Next, I crawled back underneath with the new Bosch 02 sensor. I screwed it into place, plugged it in with my super plugging abilities, then pushed the wire back though the epoxy-coated frame.

Finally, I had to reset the Lambda unit, which is located under the steering column. The Lambda is connected to the speedometer and, at around 30,000 miles, gives a readout displaying the life of the 02 sensor as 100% exhausted. I am a few miles shy of 60,000, so it seemed appropriate that my 02 sensor had bought the farm.

I unscrewed the Lambda from the firewall for easy access. I unbent a large paperclip into a 'U' shape, twisted it, then placed the ends of it into the two tiny holes where the blue arrow is pointing. I turned it clockwise until the counter read 000%.

Almost instantly the exhaust stopped burning my eyes, and the poisons turned invisible again so that I could silently kill the world with my whopping 21 U.S. mpg. If you can't see it, it can't hurt you.

Mystery Socks

Currently, my basement resembles a dungeon, and it has nothing to do with the upcoming Halloween season. The stench is awful, and the crumbling grey plaster walls are depressing. Dead bodies would feel right at home here.

The reason for the mess is that I'm in the middle of renovating my basement. And I'm doing the work by myself, partially because I can't afford to hire someone, and partially because I'm pretty darn handy.

After all, I've got more than the U.S. national average of 1.998 hands. (calculated using statistics on this website and assuming a U.S. population of 301,000,000.

Using my hands, I tore down the ceiling in my laundry room and discovered a surprise. Unfortunately, it wasn't anything super awesome like a box of 65-year-old photos, an antique melonballer or a sack of shiney gold looted from some angry-ass Pirates with an average of 1.998 eyes.

It was socks.

The socks were rolled up, sitting on top of a heating duct. They were covered in a thick layer of dark dust. When I unfolded them, they wanted to keep their rolled-up shape.

The socks were thin. The material was 100% synthetic. They were not enjoyable the way a melonballer would be. After giving some thought to the mystery socks - wondering how they got up there, who put them there, and how old they were - I threw them out.