The Buick Owner
Boom! How's your brain? ...Whoops, ha. Jumped the gun.
The Buick Owner (take 2)
There are stereotypes that float around the typical Buick owner. And around those stereotypes there floats one stereotype (it's bigger and floats all wobbly like a flying saucer running on Cheetos): Buick owners take care of their cars.
Some other stereotypes could be "they're old" or "they smell like old people" or "what do old people smell like?" or (the always popular), "I don't really know how to explain it, but old people definitely have a smell to them. Ya know what I mean?"
-"Did you hear something?"
-"We'll take care of it later, Harold.
We're gonna be late for bingo."
But let's start with the second one: They're old.
I drive a 1996 Buick Regal LIMITED who I've named "Rainbow Satan." I've mentioned her at least once, but I digress! I'm 29. I still have at least another 50 years of life in me plus another 27 as a robot. I'm not old. But if you were making a case for it, you could start with all these awesome gray hairs that are invading my scalp or how I find myself getting up more and more during the night to piddle or how I... I... I forget shit, all the time. But I'm young. Besides a bum knee and my twice-a-month foot baths and the local chapter of the service club I used to be president of—
Holy shit. I am old.
Well that's just embarrassing. Let's move on to the first one: Buick owners take care of their cars.
I do take care of my car, in my own little way. Sure, most 1st-worlders would probably argue that driving as aggressively as I do is bad for any vehicle. They'd also probably say it's not good to drive a car for prolonged periods with the low oil light on. These 1%ers, these beasts of capitalism, would most likely say that I should get the headlight fixed if how I turn it on is by hitting it. These schmucks would probably even say that I need, need, need to stop running into curbs. How dare they judge! Curbs don't have feelings.
Well, counter punch one starts with, "How can you NOT drive aggressively when it feels like you're operating a stoned air mattress?" Punch two (a left jab) goes a little like, "Oil smoil." Puncho tres: "It kinda makes me feel like a powerful badass when I thwap the headlight and it comes to life. I imagine that I am a giant with the strength of one giant." And the UPPERCUT, "Curbs are like lines in a coloring book: you're meant to stay inside them but if you don't, it's alright, sweetheart."
But not Tim Tebow.
Honesty alert: I treat my car like shit.
I prefer, however, to look at it as tough love. I'll throw ya the example biscuits:
One-hitter: hit her. Or have her hit. Repeatedly. A wind storm? Make sure you park with the wind at your back. That way when you open your door and it slams into the car next to it, you can write the note as if it was an accident. Does your roommate have a nice car? Park in front of it so when it gets stolen the thief will run into your back bumper. And of course, curbs.
Deux it: have you ever washed your car? Me neither! We have so much in common. Listen: you, me, and a bottle of wine in back seat of my Buick. We'll just see what happens. Rainbow has no business being one color, which is why I'm allowing a color evolution. You know how mixing all the colors of the rainbow produces a rich, brown. Well it works for your car as well. Don't wash it and let a lovely dirt shell protect it from looking respectable.
Too bad she's just saying that because her
ankle is broken and she needs a ride to the hospital.
Tough Love Trois: a few months back I decided it would be funny, after a soccer game I watched from the bench, to drive toward HotMom72, who was backing out of his parking space, and slam my hand into the center of the steering wheel. Hehe, haha, right? Well, after Ambush de la Horn 2010, I followed him out of the parking lot. That's when my always-trusty horn decides now would be a great time to destroy the hearing of a few jerkoffs standing near their cars. "What, the fuck," I ask my extremely lavish and comfortable interior. The horn screams on and on so I naturally do what every sane person would do, start punching the steering wheel with the strength of one giant. And after a few solid rights, the horn shuts off.
"Awesome, horn resting in the extremely lavish and comfortable interior," I almost say in thanks.
"I'm sorry, sir," Rainbow says. "I just don't know what got into me."
"Forget about it. Sure, it scared the shit out of me, but no worries."
I try calming myself with a series of deep breaths. A couple miles pass by with nothing but amazingly smooth sailing and then,
"HOLYSHITWHATTHEFUCKISTHATOHMYGODWEARETOTALLYFUCKEDAHH," blares Rainbow.
"Punch," shouts my fist. "Punch! Punch punch! Punch punch punch punch!"
And we're back to the remarkably smooth ride only a V6, 195-horsepower engine can offer. And we go on like that for a few days.
WARNING: Pregnant woman should not drive 2011 Buick Regal
due to risk of blurry baby.
But all good things, even the horn on an exceptionally reliable and american-made sedan, come to an end. This time it was while I was at work. I used to be a Child Care Worker at a lodge in the mountains for boys with emotional and behavioral disorders. I had just pulled the night shift and was sleeping comfortably in the basement bedroom, when, of all people, Rainbow Satan decides t—
"WHERETHEFUCKAMIHOLYSHITIJUSTHADABADDREAMWHEREIWASFALLINGANDIHADSPAGHETTINOODLESFORLEGSANDIWASWEARINGBOXERSHORTSMADEOUTOFCOCKROACHES!"
So I do what any sane person would do: I throw on a pair of shorts and run barebreasted and barefooted over the gravel and into my car where I serve helping after helping of tough love with my fist ladle. A good friend and colleague calmly walks out of the lodge while all the boys are watching, takes pity on my now-bleeding knuckles, and has me pop the hood where I take out the horn fuse. He unplugs the horn just incase and we laugh. As I walk back to bed I vow to repay Rainbow for this embarrassment.
Vengeance is mine a couple weeks later when I have my mechanic cut a hole in Rainbow's lower dash to install a black button to the right of the steering wheel: my new horn. It's sexy, ladies and gentleman, and it even matches the tape that covers both my broken side mirror and the dried-glue drips below it.
Grand Theft Auto: Buick Riviera.
I love my car and will always love my car, even though you'll rarely see me taking great care of my car. Just because cars go through emotional and behavioral disorders, acquire bumps and bruises and a wobbly front-passenger wheel, and draw disdainful looks at stoplights, that doesn't mean we stop loving them. I think those are only reasons to love them more.
Did you enjoy this blahg post? Great. You, me, a bottle of Cab in the back of my Buick, we'll just see what happens. OOORR, you could pass it along to one friend for their entertainment. Everyone needs a good laugh and it's just one friend. Can you stop being so selfish for one goddamn second and throw me a bone? That's it, I'm turning Rainbow around. We're going back, Mister. I don't like your attitude.
