Look who's on Autoblog! We recently made friends with funny man Adam Carolla, who you may remember from The Man Show, Crank Yankers and Loveline. More recently he's the host of The Adam Carolla Podcast [iTunes link] and Adam Carolla's CarCast. If you're not a CarCast listener yet, correct that gross oversight by subscribing here. Then sit back, relax and read the hilarious tale told by Adam below. Warning: The guy swears some, so man up before reading further.

The Time I Drove Off a Tow Truck

I was at a billiards hall drinking beer and shooting pool on a Friday night after a Man Show taping. It was a Man Show tradition. After every tape night we would go to a big pool hall and drink pitchers of beer until the production assistants got drunk enough to tell you what they really thought of you.

I was in the middle of a conversation with a P.A. about how Jimmy was the funny one when somebody ran up the stairs and yelled, "They're towing your car." I, along with a couple of people, ran down the stairs and across the street to find my car hooked up to a tow truck that was ready to drive away.

I'll bore you with a few quick details first because it's important to the story. One, the car was a brand new silver BMW M3, E36 body style, and two, the tow truck was one of those modern style ones with two prongs that slid under your back tires and lifted the whole rear end of the car off the ground.

I ran up to the gentleman and said, "This is my car, how can we take care of this?" He said, "You can follow me to the impound lot." I said, "How about we just take care of this right now? I'll pay you and we can both go our separate ways." He said, "That's not going to work," and began to drive away.

Follow the jump
to find out what happens next.


This could have been settled the way our forefathers would have done it – with a trip to the ATM.
I jumped into my car and mashed my foot on the brake pedal as hard as I could. He dragged me for a couple of feet, then jumped out of the tow truck and yelled, "What are you doing?" I said, "You're not towing the car. Let's just take care of this now." He said, "I have to tow the car. If I don't come back to the impound lot with a car my boss will ask questions." I said, "Do you ever go out on a call and by the time you show up the car is gone?" He said it happens all the time. I said, "Let's just make this one of those times." He said no and headed for the cab of his truck. I then headed for the driver's seat of my car and we began round two of Dancing with the Tards.

We both jumped out of our vehicles, got into it again and at a certain point I said, "Why are you being such an asshole?" And he responded the way all good assholes respond, which is to step it up. This is something assholes do to help them sleep at night. They act like dicks and somewhere during the conversation, when you call them on it, they use that as justification for being a dick in the first place. It'd be like if someone came up to you and punched you in the balls, and then when you punch them back they go "Oh, now it's on."

This could have been settled easily and nobly the way our forefathers would have done it – with a trip to the ATM. But no, this dick was going to make me follow him to downtown L.A. at 1AM and fill out a bunch of paperwork. All of a sudden I heard a voice yell, "Pull your tie-down off." It was the voice of one of our directors, Tom Stern. (Tom wasn't exactly what you would call straight-laced. In the middle of the AIDS hysteria of the late '80s, he once dressed as a junkie hobo, went into a crowded New York subway car and shot fake blood from a prosthetic penis at a horrified crowd of commuters.) I looked over and saw that Tom had taken the nylon lashings off the passenger side rear wheel. Without hesitation, I pulled the lashings off the drivers' side and then Tom screamed, "Go!"

Keep in mind the rear wheels of the car were at the height of a kitchen countertop. Maybe it was adrenaline or the fear of being squirted by a fake penis, but I jumped in the car, started it up, put it in first, and slowly started to let out the clutch. The car didn't budge. The problem was it's rear-wheel drive and the tires were on a rack that prevented them from rolling forward. Tom was now slapping the hood yelling, "Go!"

This time I threw some revs on the engine and dropped the clutch. The car lurched forward and landed on the ground with a thud, hitting something on the way down. I didn't have time to get out and assess the damage, I just hauled ass into the night, and so did Tom. I went home, poured myself a glass of wine and did what I always do, waited for federal marshals to show up at the house.

The following morning I went down to the garage fearing the worst and to my shock and delight the only thing wrong with the M3 was the spare tire well in the trunk got converted from an innie to an outie. I pulled out the spare tire, climbed into the trunk and jumped up and down on the sheet metal until it went back to its original form. There are probably more than one of you at this point who feel sorry for the tow truck driver. To you I say "suck it"; this dick brought it on himself. This would have never happened in the past or today in New Jersey. We could have settled this with a couple of twenties and a handshake. But in the immortal words of John Rambo, "They drew first blood, not me."

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Adam Carolla's CarCast [iTunes link]