Car you Retarded?


Cars, sometimes, can make you throw your hands up into the air in frustration...in the middle of the street with hopes of getting hit by one. The maintenance, cleaning, maintenance, court costs, maintenance, vehicular homicide, and maintenace make cars very expensive, and stressful possessions.

Sometimes, it may seem as though you're actually going to work for the sole purpose of generating enough money to pay for your car repairs. In this situation, the best thing to do, is to set your car on fire and roll it into a ditch. Then get a new fucking car, because your old one sucks big fat monkey wang. That's what happens to cars when they get old. They suck wang.

My car is no different, other than the fact that, being the wisened old genius that I am with stellar foresight, chose to buy a car that, conveniently, had already reached the "wang suck" stage of it's existence. Sure, when you see it in the lot, all shiny, and shit free, you think, 'hey, that car hasn't got any shit on it, so clearly it must be in peak functioning condition.' And then, when you test drive it, and the body doesn't immediately separate from the chassi and sail flaming onto the interstate, causing real physical harm to innocent bystanders and significant property damage, you think, 'cool. this thing will continue running far past my own death.'

Sadly, this is not the case. Cars, and by this I mean all cars, every car ever built or hatched, will eventually wind up a smoldering reck on the side of the road, leaving you stranded with no hope of survival.

Ok, well maybe not quite so dramatic as that, but pretty close.

So as you may or may not (born again christians) have guessed, my car broke down. What happened was the starter burned out because the ignition key snapped, which in layman's terms translates to, "turny thing no make rev rev go go." Or something like that.

Anyway, it didn't start. Or 'turn over,' as really pretentious people say. So yeah, I had to have the damn thing towed, wherein I had to help the crack towing squad push the thing out of a parking space the size of a drinking straw onto the bare street so it could be safely hit by oncoming traffic. Or else, loaded onto the tow truck. You know, whichever.

Then I had it 'fixed,' by which of course I mean, I had some guys who's credentials came off a cereal box make one set of strange noises into a completely different and slightly less grindy set of strange noises. And all I had to give them in exchange was all my worldly possessions, several internal organs which they assured me I could live safely without for several months, and the promise of my first born male, should I live to spawn one. Suckers.

So, to sum up: the car got 'fixed,' and I'll be making payments directly to the car until the repair bill is paid, or I die. So, I think I come out on top here. I mean, at least I can get to work. To make more money. To pay to the car. Which I need to get to work. See, it all makes perfect sense.