As some of you may know, I love my car. The select few who have been granted the privilege of riding in my 1996 Buick Regal Limited have seen first hand her imperfections. But Rainbow Satan has been oh so faithful to me, so I will drive her as long as it allows.
Now, some of her imperfections I chose not to fix. The massive crack in the windshield? I don’t need 20/20 vision to drive. So, tough guy, how about the oil leak? I don’t mind throwing in a quart now and then. O.K. buster, the blinkers that don’t disengage? I drive a Buick, so I’m obviously not too worried about the old-person image. If I drive for 10 minutes with my right blinker on, who cares? Oh, sorry Officer Meoff.
But there were some issues I had to deal with.
The Case of the Flaccid Side Mirror: I was on the way home, moments after buying my baby, when my passenger side mirror dropped, flapping against the door around every corner. I got out and noticed the massive amount of electrical tape that failed to hold Rainbow’s right ear. Nothing a good glue job wouldn’t fix. I proved myself right when a short while later I attached the mirror to its proper place with an elaborate contraption of Gorilla Glue, cardboard and duct tape. Well the duct tape is gone, and you can’t see the cardboard, but the yellowish-brown glue dripped down the door and remains there today (even after several attempts to chip it away), but that mirror hasn’t budged. Broken car 0, Me 1.
The Debacle of the Droopy Roof Cloth: This one came a year later when the cloth on the roof of the interior started to sag. I ignored the problem, and like a careless teenager I rode with all the windows down, letting my luscious hair blow in the wind. But gradually the problem grew until I couldn’t see very well out my rear view mirror. I came up with a plan. First I’d use some fabric glue to adhere it to the roof. Now, an amateur would’ve stopped there, but not I. Part two of the plan was to staple the cloth into the roof so there was no chance of further flappage. Of course, it worked. Broken car 0, Me 2.
The Adventure of the Non-Blinking Blinker: I’m sad to admit that this latest problem will not be fixed by my resourcery. It will be fixed by my mechanic, as it is simply beyond my craftiness. It’s my left blinker. Instead of just not disengaging, now it won’t even blink. It just remains a solid yellow, completely defeating the purpose of a “blink”er. So now if I want to notify my fellow drivers I will be pulling a Louie, I have to manually flick my blink stick up and down (Oooo, sounds dirty). Broken car 1, Me 2.
Now, in honor of the recent announcement that Glenn Beck will be departing from FOX News (pause to collect myself), I will offer a crackpot explanation of why my blinker decided to crap out. I feel a little silly even typing this, because it’s sooo obvious. The reason my left blinker decided it was done blinking is because Jesus doesn’t want me to turn left. As my mother would say, “Once you turn left, that’s the when the sin seeps in.” Socialism is around the next corner. You pass through Piss On The Constitution Avenue and Stalin Parkway and then guess who you see hitchhiking: Hitler. So of course you have to pick him up. And the next thing you know, your Buick’s a mobile abortion clinic. All because you’ve turned left.
Well friends, don’t fret as I won’t let a blinker deter me from turning left, in any sense of the word, no matter how hard my parents try to steer me right.
And finally, my latest problem: The Fucking Fuel Pump. It should be noted here that I had finished 90% of this blog entry when this beauty appeared. Driving back from a half day at work, the gas pedal decided to ignore me. Losing power I was forced to pull over. A tow truck and a costly repair later, my Buick, my baby returns. Broken car 2, Brad 2.
So now I need to figure out a way to pay for this latest repair. Know any good abortion doctors?
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