We try not to judge people by the clothes on their back on the car that they drive, but what about what they keep in their car? Well, that may just be a whole new debate. Check out the weird stuff that people found in their rides!
This Guy Plays With Dolls Alright
“So… one night I’m working at a restaurant (as a valet) on Boylston street, and a black SUV pulls up with a rather big dude in it (he was probably 6’4′ 290 lbs). It was a busy night and we would usually put it in the garage, but we were worried the SUV would scrape the ceiling of the garage, so we left it out front.
An hour goes by and a couple of other cars pulled up, no big deal. Until one of my coworkers was putting a key in the key box and knocked the SUV’s keys off the hook. He picks it up and accidentally opens the trunk of the SUV. So naturally, I go to close it…
I tried to just push it closed but something was blocking it, so I open the trunk all the way to move the object in the way, and wouldn’t you know it…
A mannequin. It was dressed up in a black miniskirt with a skull and crossbones tank top. And it had makeup, lots of makeup, like the ‘HOLY COW NOBODY’S CHEEKS OR LIPS ARE THAT RED’ kind of makeup. I figure the guy’s wife works as a clothing designer. That’s when it hits me…
It’s that smell, that smelly smell, that smelly smell that smells… smelly. It was spunk, and it took my nose and violated it with its scent. I look closer and there are clearly stains all over the mannequin’s clothes, and lips. Right…
So after gazing at this violated inanimate object, I go to move it so I can close the trunk (what I was trying to do originally). That’s when I saw it…
The mannequin was leaning up against the back seat in the trunk, so its legs were facing me, no doubt where this man had been having his fun with it. It was slouched over and its foot was in the way of the trunk closing so I just pushed its foot to the side and it was unmistakable…
This sick freak had cut out the crotch of the mannequin and replaced it with a fleshlight. I know what a fleshlight looks like okay and that was a fleshlight. But then it got worse.
This guy, this demented weirdo guy, who was shacking up with a dressed-up mannequin, came out of the restaurant. I see him and he sees me, looking in the trunk. He runs over, says ‘That’s for an art project, hands me a $2 tip (cheapskate), and left rubber on the ground he left so fast.
I can only imagine the stuff that poor mannequin has seen.”
So That’s Where The Driver Went
“My brother worked for a rental car company at a small regional airport in the late 90s. One day they got a call from the state police about an abandoned car on the interstate that belonged to the rental company. They had it towed to their location and put it in the back lot since they didn’t have the keys and several windows were broken.
A few hot summer days later they were slow and went out to do a full check on the car. Since they didn’t have keys they couldn’t open the trunk to check it. He decided to remove the rear seatback and there was a thin fiberboard divider blocking access to the trunk. He decided to just bust through with his shoulder. He was hit with a terrible stench and looked into the eyes of the renter. The murdered body had been in there for over a week.
The police didn’t think to check the trunk when they found the car. Evidently, the trunk was sealed enough to contain the smell.”
Naughty Furniture?
“It was a gift from a lover’s boyfriend. I was visiting my lover in Los Angeles when her boyfriend at the time gave it to me.
I carried it back with me on a plane, which created some interesting conversations at the airport. It was in its box, and when I checked it onto the plane, the X-ray looked…odd.
So the guy at security asked me about it.
‘What’s in the box?’
‘Furniture.’
‘What kind of furniture?’
‘The naughty kind. Naughty furniture.’
‘Naughty furniture? What’s that?’
‘You know how a gliding ottoman works?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Okay, take a gliding ottoman and put a hole in the top. Now attach a lever arm to the glide mechanism, see? Then you attach an adult toy to the other end of the lever arm, and…’
‘Okay, okay, got it.’
When I got it home, it wouldn’t fit in my little tiny convertible, so I had to take down the roof and stick it in the seat on its end with the top poking out the roof.”
Now That’s A Chunk of Change
“I am not a police officer. A friend was terminally ill with cancer. A few weeks before he died, he asked me to come for a visit. While we were talking He asked me to clean out his car sometime in the next week or so. It was a Toyota Prius hybrid. I said sure. He handed me the keys and told me to give everything of value to his son and then give the keys to his wife. Sure. In a day or two, he got worse and went to the hospital. I went to his house and started cleaning out the car.
I started in the trunk, I took everything out of the trunk, mat, spare tire, jack, etc. absolutely everything. I picked up about $100.00 in loose pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters. I had four coffee cans full of change. There was a plastic box that weighed about 40 pounds. I opened the box and found that it was filled with silver bars. There was an old Denim Jacket. I cleaned out the pockets. There was a little over 2,000 in currency in the pockets and an uncashed check for $1,200.
There were two canvas bags with silver bars and a box with about 80 silver dollars. That was just the trunk. When I cleaned out the rest of the car, there was approximately $40 in change, a few silver bars under the front seats. I found an envelope marked Security box key. The envelope had a receipt for a safe. I could not find a safe anyway. I inventoried everything in the car, made a copy of the inventory, and left the weekly folks in. There was about 45 pounds of silver bars and close to $170 in change.”
Why God, Why?!
“Ah, why. WHY is it that with me, it somehow always manages to come back to POOP?
Many years ago, I was in a rush to get to work one morning, running a little late despite the time I’d saved by getting dropped off right at the front doors—rather than having to undergo the whole parking routine.
A friend of mine was borrowing my car for the day, dropping me off and then picking me up from work later that evening. In exchange, I’d asked her to run an errand I’d not had time to complete before I was due at work that morning.
The errand: head over to my doctor’s office and drop off my stool sample for me.
Later on, that night when she picked me up, I asked her if she had ‘made the deposit’ for me, and she assured me that it had been taken care of. So assuming all was well, I promptly forgot about it.
It was a Friday, which is why it had been important to get the sample in, as the lab was closed on weekends. I didn’t expect to hear anything back from my doctor until the middle of the next week, at best.
It was a weekend of record-breaking summer weather, as I recall, and I spent it hiding inside my air-conditioned home, for the most part. My friend borrowed my car again on Sunday to drive to work, and I told her to just keep it, and then I’d drop her off before going back to my own job on Monday.
The ride was uneventful, except I wondered aloud if one of us had stepped in dog poop because I kept getting a stray whiff of something fecal.
Just before I dropped her off at her house Monday morning, my friend says to me, ‘Oh yeah, you might want to drop off your poop before you go to work’.
She had forgotten all about it, only remembering when she’d needed to use the trunk earlier that morning to move some cleaning equipment for her mother, (whom she worked with) and the smell had hit them both—in the face, like a punch from Mike Tyson in his prime.
My friend’s mother—who has known me since I was nine, but has always looked at me in such a way that is a little askance— reacted with the priceless drama that only a tiny elderly Mexican woman with a heavy accent is capable of, exclaiming,
‘Ai Dios mio, ¿Qué es esto? ¿Es esta mierda? KRISSI’S poo? Pero por qué!’
Oh my God! What is this—is this dookie? KRISSI’S doodie? But WHY?”
Needless to say, I had to obtain a fresh sample. And let’s just say that the looks my friend’s mother continues to toss my way have certainly not improved.
What A Sweet Surprise
“One time my daughter, then around 8 was eating a meat and potato pie in the back of my VW camper. ‘I don’t want this, can I have some candy?’ she screamed, then she stuffed half of it under a mattress.
A few days later it stank like a rotting corpse, and I eventually found it.
Another time she spilled her strawberry shake in the back seat of my car, and never told me. Same again, strawberry-flavored rotting corpse, I had to remove the grommets from the floor and pour buckets of hot, disinfectant water over the carpet for weeks. Strawberry Dettol rotting corpse for weeks.
Yet another time, I was fishing for trout with my buddy Alistair. Alistair would carry the bait (maggots) in his jacket pocket. It was a warm summer evening and when we drove home he took the jacket off and put it in the back of my car.
We had a drink or two at my house, and he went home, just a couple of doors down.
The coat sat there unnoticed because I was working, but after a week or so I noticed that there was always a bluebottle or two in the car at the end of the day.
The maggots had all escaped and distributed themselves under carpets, in the door cards, in the dashboard in fact all through the car, and the bluebottles keep a coming for around two months.
Alistair thought that this was hilarious when I told him, so I loosely wrapped a couple of sardines in tinfoil, and stuffed them in behind the speedo in his car.
He never did find out what the stink was, and ended up trading the car a few months later. Sweet revenge.”
Doing The Deed
“Years ago I sold a 1968 Dodge pickup to a friend. The truck seemed ancient even in about 1979 or so when I sold it. it was filthy dirty and had definitely been around the block a time or two. So, after my friend bought it he took it to a local hand wand car wash and proceeded to power wash everything, including the inside of the cab. Both doors were open and he was spraying under the seat when a pair of women’s panties flew out from under the seat and landed on the pavement on the floor of the car wash stall. Both of us were somewhat surprised as he had just bought the truck, and though I had owned it for several years I knew I had never ‘entertained’ any young woman (or any woman for that matter) in the front seat of that truck.
About 5 minutes into this mystery, I remembered that during a college summer about a year prior a friend had borrowed that truck to do some bar hopping on a Friday night. He told me when he returned the truck the following day, that he had (in the vernacular of the era) gotten lucky. Remember this was 1979 or 1980 and both participants were consenting adults. I also knew the woman in question, both were well over 21. But yes, my friend (who I haven’t seen or heard from in over 30 years) was something of a chad and had apparently used my old truck to do the deed. I never knew for sure until the evidence floated out from under the truck seat several years later.”
Baby On Board
“A turkey strapped into a baby seat.
I went to the grocery store, to get all the stuff for Thanksgiving dinner. I left my three young kids with my husband.
I blissfully strolled the aisles, ALONE. No one pulling on me for this or that.
Potatoes, gravy, pie, stuffing.
Cart overflowing, I grabbed up a giant frozen turkey and headed to the checkout.
Out to the car. Everything goes in the trunk. Off to home.
Rattle, rattle, thump.
Rattle, rattle, thump.
Hmm. I stop the car. I look in the trunk.
Stupid turkey had been rolling around, hitting one side or the car and them the other, crushing the other groceries.
I decide to put it into the back seat. God, this sucker is cold and heavy.
Off I go. Thump.
The turkey fell off of the backseat.
Arrrrgh.
I spy my daughter’s car seat.
Hmm. 20 lbs turkey is about the same size.
I position the turkey and strap it in.
The lack of head and little tiny wing/ arms look a bit disturbing but whatever.
Off to home.
My husband comes out into the dim garage to help bring everything in.
‘Uh… who’s in the backseat?’ He asked quizzically.
‘Take a closer look, Dear’ I call over my shoulder as I head for the kitchen.”
What’s In The Gas Tank?!
“Okay, this is funny. Well, it is now funny, but wasn’t back then…
I’m not a professional mechanic, but I have restored quite a few vehicles from the ground up, including engine rebuilds, paint, etc.
This was 1991, and I was 17. My uncle had given me a nice little ′79 Datsun truck. The problem was that it kept dying on me. It would run great, and then, at really odd times, it would just die.
Any decent mechanic knows that you have to have three things for an engine to run: fuel, spark, and air. Very simple- especially for any vehicle made in 1979.
My dad is one heck of a great mechanical genius. He has a sixth sense when it comes to anything mechanical or technical, for that matter.
We started digging into what could be wrong with this truck. We looked at everything. Air, obviously. Spark (ignition), is very strong. Fuel, yes. We disconnected the line from the carburetor, turned the ignition on, and the electric fuel pump put out good pressure. The carburetor was clean, and the float and needle were great.
What the heck was going on? We tried jiggling the ignition key to see if we were losing connection. Nope. We tried wiggling every electrical connection to see if the engine would die. Nope. That little truck would just sit there and idle away.
We’d take it on the road, and whether in a turn, accelerating, decelerating, stopped, or at full throttle, it would die, but never predictably. We’d go for miles and it would run great, then die.
My dad has a legendary temper. It is extremely rare to see him lose it, but he did that day. What was freaky was that he got very quiet, eerily quiet, and, in this mood, he just looked right at me and said ‘I know what it is…’
Can you figure it out?
Because we did, and it was actually simple- only in retrospect.
Here is the answer…
My dad told me to drop the fuel tank. So, I did. It was very easy on this truck.
We dumped all the fuel, it was only a few gallons, and then, we heard a rattle.
Someone, and who knows when, had pushed an apricot seed into the tank. It had a perfect, circle-like ‘O’ on both sides, where it would be sucked right to the steel fuel inlet line, temporarily plugging it.
So, when the truck died and the pump stopped sucking, the seed would drift off. Later, it would drift back at random and plug the line again.
We spent hours on this truck. It was a really hot summer.
When we found the seed, my dad just shook his head and said, ‘This one simple thing almost defeated me.’ You just have to know my dad to appreciate the impossibility of him ever giving up on something.
I still have the seed in a small jar in my shop. It is a symbol for me, a symbol to keep an open mind- to be humble and never begin to assume that I can fix everything.”
Can’t Blame Him For Being Hungry!
“A big fat wiener.
In the town I lived in back in the ’90s there were only 3 places to get a decent hot dog. The most popular was ‘little red dog house’, which was in fact… just a little red house that sold hot dogs. 3 for a buck. Even with chili, cheese, and slaw you came in at 2 dollars or less. They were great and the drive-through was always packed with poor blokes who couldn’t afford McDonald’s.
The other place was ‘star dogs’. It was a sit-down joint owed by a nice Greek family. They were pretty fancy though. They had sit-down tables and name-brand sodas. Video games and flavored fries. Much more suited to the hoity-toity upscale crowd.
But the true frank fanatics knew the only real game in town was Pelhams gas station. They had their chili in a crockpot with a sign over it, written in black magic marker on sun-bleached cardboard, claiming that this was the exact same chili that was served back in the 20s. Never washed, never changed, just more sauce and meat added every single day for over 70 years. The cheapest cheddar. The kind that melts Into an orange radioactive goo with dripping grease running out both ends of the plain white bread cheapo buns. The watery slaw that I’m pretty sure was made with salad dressing instead of mayo like God intended.
Totally disgusting and my favorite by a country mile.
One particular day I stopped and got three. Heading home, chomping and driving. Hungry. Construction was hard work and I didn’t take breaks. I didn’t know if I ate 2 or 3, but all were gone so I must have had 3.
Fast forward maybe a week later. A lady stops short on a yellow and I lock them up. Something hits my foot and I look down.
The Pelham I couldn’t remember if I ate or not. Wax paper is still intact. I leaned down and grabbed it. Traffic was moving again. I sniffed it. It smelled ok. I unwrapped it. It looked ok. I took a bite, it tasted cold but alright. I wolfed it on down.
I barely made it home. Unbuckling my belt and running like a mofo straight to the bathroom. All night long.”
Tales From The Drive-Thru
“I worked several years at a Wendy’s during high school and part of college and saw some things:
Saw a woman who looked like she was at least well into her 60s blasting gangster rap in her car and singing along.
We had a semi-regular that would always come through with his family and would order his food in the most annoying way possible. ‘First, I’d like a burger with mayo and catsup. Then I need a burger with mayo and lettuce. Back on that first burger, I need mustard also. Then I need a burger with onions and tomatoes. On the second burger, I need mayo and mustard. The first burger also needs lettuce. The third burger needs mayo and mustard. On a fourth burger, I need everything on it. The second burger needs tomatoes and onions. Back on the fourth burger, no mustard. The third burger needs lettuce and onions…’ He would pull this stuff every single time and then act wonder why his order was never right when we read it back to him. I always assumed he was one of those pricks who thought he was funny being an annoying moron.
I had a guy that got ticked off with me because he felt I was rushing him through the drive-thru. The dude was wasted and repeated nodded off while he was sitting at the drive-thru window. I was raising my voice with him to get him to wake up. When he finally handed over his money, he nodded off again and gave me plenty of time to call the cops on him.
We had another wasted guy come through the drive-thru mid-afternoon. He slurred through his order, pulled forward a little bit, and promptly fell asleep. We asked the car in front of him if they would stay put while we called the cops. About five or six minutes later he wakes up, notices there are a lot of people staring at him, and pulls out of the drive-thru onto the sidewalk behind the restaurant, and manages to hit our building. He keeps going with his front bumper hanging halfway off the car and scraping along the ground. The guy managed to drive right past the cop at the parking lot entrance and the cop fails to notice me and three other crew members shouting and pointing to the car. Cop calmly pulls up, asks if we called, and just kind of shrugs his shoulders as we are all yelling that he passed the guy on his way in and says he’ll try to keep an eye out for the guy.
Saw a couple of guys in a bro truck who get to the speaker say they changed their mind about getting food, get annoyed they have to wait because they now have cars in front of them and behind them and now they can’t get out, so they decide to go four-wheeling right through the bushes that were along with the drive-thru. I went outside and ran behind them long enough to get their license plate. I called the cops and about fifteen minutes later the cops arrive, I let them in, and while I am speaking to them, I notice the bro truck is back in the drive-thru. I and the cop walk out, I show them the plate info I wrote down and point the bro truck out. The cops ask the guys to pull into the next lot and the bro truck guys immediately lie and say they don’t know what I am talking about. While one cop is getting their story, his partner pulls half a bush out of their wheel well. They eventually fess up. A week later the district manager stopped by the store and I asked him what was going to happen with those guys. The district manager just says they are going to get prosecuted and I don’t get so much as a thank you.
Another day I was working the window and a customer tells me there is someone dancing out at the entrance of the drive-thru. I’m kind of like ‘so what’ and the customer insists someone go look at this guy dance. I mention it to the shift manager who goes to check it out. The shift manager gets halfway across the parking lot and then turns around saying ‘heck no, I ain’t dealing with that. Turns out the customer was too polite to say ‘jerking off’ instead of dancing. Of course, the dancer is long gone by the time the cops show up.
Watching a guy in a huge RV come through and smash in the roof of the RV on a big branch of a huge tree that was out by the drive-thru. He immediately got out and screamed that there should be some sort of warning. Our manager calmly pointed out the five-foot-tall, eight-foot-wide sign that adorned the entrance of the drive-thru.”
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