cars

God, let me tell ya: a car is a precious damn thing. They’re like Faberge Eggs with wheels, especially if they’re a rare kind. You get a single scratch on a car–any car–and it can cost you somewhere between 100 to 200 dollars; and that is me just estimating.

I unfortunately did not just leave a single scratch on a car; rather, I was pulling out of the parking lot of a Baskin-Robbins, and I happened to scratch the rear end of a car with the front bumper of mine.

By the way, I dented the bumper and scratched the hell out of this guy’s paint. I cringed at seeing it, even thinking about it makes me all wiggly inside.

It was not one of my finer moments.

I do still wish, however, to point out that the parking space I was leaving was on an incline, and, there were cars blocking my view of both the left and right sides of the road, in and out of which cars were driving.

It was not a well-structured parking lot.

That is my defense. Now, I choose to plead the Fifth.

You can’t do that.

What?

You already revealed information, so…you can’t plead the Fifth.

The hell? Fine. I plead the Matrix.

No one is taking you seriously.

Geez, dude, if a lady can plead that it was all the Matrix’s fault after she killed someone, then shouldn’t I be able to for scratching a car? The balances, man. Weigh those balances.

You can’t just use a fictional universe as an excuse.

The balances have spoken. Ah, no more–if I hear one more thing out of your imaginary little mouth, I will overrule the judge.

I’m leaving.

All right! Great! Didn’t need that dumbass anyway. I have a whole list of people just waiting to help me get through this horrific car-scratching incident. Therapists. Psychiatrists. Mechanics. Butchers. Bakers. Candlestick Makers.

UUUGGGGHHH! Why do I have to be such a terrible driver? I passed the test, does that mean nothing to you, you disgusting Automobile Gods? Okay, maybe I punched too many people in Slugbug, but, please, be reasonable!

You know what, since you don’t feel like talking, I’m gonna go punch some more people in Slugbug. Oh, and one other thing, I’ve always thought you guys were crap in comparison to the Ten-Speed Gods.

Hey, that’s an idea! I’ll just ride a bike from now on!

Ring-a-ding-ding, baby.

Think daily,

A Southpaw

They come in varying shapes and sizes and colors and scents and tastes and– to put it simply they are the chariots of the American Dream; a customizer would sell his or her family to obtain a classic beauty and jazz it up; some children believe it their rite of passage to be handed those jingling keys and the dependability which accompanies them.

Old men love them. Old women love them.

Young men love them. Young women love them.

Teenagers drool over them: what would you do if your dream vehicle all of a sudden appeared in your driveway? There is your parent holding the keys over your trembling head–as a matter of fact it is your sixteenth birthday, and you did pass the driving test yesterday. No coincidences in this situation.

Of course I am referring to cars.

What is the first image popping into your head? A Volkswagen beetle, or even better a van; although nowadays those prices are steep. A hot rod–my neighbor owns a loud one. A pickup truck…not a bad choice. A Jeep.

Hold on. A Jeep?

Please tell me you’re lying; someone put to you up to this. Were you double dog dared?

I see–triple dog dared. Okay, go ahead and sit down in the back…yes, we’ll talk later.

Geez, man, Jeeps? Can you believe that guy?

Back to the point:

There is something to be said about the thrills received from driving aimlessly across the interstate system. Towns you never heard of appear instantaneously on the sides of the road; for example you see a sign reading Kimbolish and beneath it in blue letters, 4 miles, but you realize Kimbolish sounds like the dumbest name for a town and you stopped to take a leak not five minutes ago. So grab a t-shirt, a mug with the town name spelled in foam letters upon the ceramic…call it a day. But if you forget to try their local burger joint, then stop off at Fernaningo–the ghost town fifteen miles ahead. I heard they specialize in mystery meat.

Cars are also the social markers of our world. The next time you are prowling the streets–to some of you it may be an everyday routine–watch the reactions to the driver in the sports car compared to the driver of the mini van; babies laugh when one of those horns go off—and it is not the latter.

What was your first car?

Think daily,

A Southpaw