Tuesday, May 02, 2006

• Ciera Miffed

  
  
  This is (a picture of what) my car (looks like).
  A 1994 Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera.
  
  I love my car.
  
  My car hates my woman.
  
  

  I don't know why this is so, but everything that's ever gone wrong with my car has happened while Marby was driving it.  This leads me to believe that my car is either:
  

  1. A jeaous female
  2. A bitchy gay male.

  Actually, I don't think my car is a gay male because it's not very clean.
  
  
  

  Here's the most recent example of why I think my car is jealous of my woman:
  
      Marby took the car to the grocery store yesterday afternoon while I was sleeping.
  
  

  No, I'm not lazy.  I work nights.  May I continue, please?
  
  

      Thank you.  Anyway, she took Cheddar with her, who waited outside in the car.  As any teenager would, Cheddar got bored and turned on the radio while she waited.  She didn't turn on the ignition and failed to realize that the air conditioner was also running.  Half an hour later, Marby returned, but the battery had been run down so much that the car wouldn't start.
      Not wishing to disturb me, Marby called a friend of ours to give the battery a jump.  He very courteously obliged, but was unable to get the car started.  He claims that it was because his car is a four-banger, which isn't powerful enough to jump start a V6.
  
  

  I disagree, and here is what I think my car was thinking:
  
  

  "That bitch has some nerve leaving her demon she-child behind to treat me like some kind of hip-hop juke box.  HAHA!  Look at her panic while she calls my man.  She is gonna be in SO much trouble.  HEY!  Who's this dude?  I break down and you call another man to service me?  THAT'S IT!  I'm going nowhere until my man gets here."
  
  

      I happened to wake up earlier than usual before work and I was greeted by Cheddar's recanting of the fiasco.  Our friend had been kind enough to give them a ride home and Marby had gone out to run some additional errands using her car.
      Upon Marby's return, we went back to the store and tried to give my car another jump.  After I hooked up the jumper cables and started her car, Marby hopped into my car to attempt to start it.  I already knew she would be unsuccessful if she tried, so I gestured for her to trade places with me.  I turned the key and my car spoke to me:
  
  

  "Don't ever let her do that to me again.  You know very well that I'll start every time you turn my key.  Except for now.  You're supposed to hook the negative lead to the engine block, dumbass!
  
  

  "I'm sorry, baby, I didn't mean that."
  
  

  So I corrected my mistake, and the car started immediately.  You can give me all the logical explanations you want, but I maintain that my car is jealous.  When Marby and I got home, I told her, "My car just doesn't like you."  She responded with a fake pout, but she knows it's true.  The only reason she uses my car is because her car's air conditioning and power steering are out of order.  Despite my car's jealous nature, you might think me rude for not being gentlemanly and taking her car; but it doesn't like me, either.
  
  I don't know if it's male or female, but I'm convinced it hates me because I'm a heathan:
  

  • Marby is a Christian.
  • Marby's car was given to her by her father, a Pentacostal minister.

  Marby counters this argument by saying that my car hates smokers, as it never had a cigarette in its ashtray before I drove it.  That might be true, but the car might also sense that this smoking heathen also doesn't care much for Chryslers.
  
  

  Currently Reading Christine By Stephen King see related

  • 3:35 PM
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