I know MANY of you have often sat around wondering what would happen if I was forced to move to Fort Hood, Texas against my will and had to pack half my shit into my car and drive fifteen hundred miles from Long Beach, California by myself AND was sick to death of every CD and mp3 in my collection. WELL. Lucky for you, I had the chance to find out.
I drove six hours yesterday and stopped in Phoenix for the night. That went smoothly enough. By today, however, the absence of music and conversation began to have a strange effect on me. I have this bizarre superstition that if I tell my Dodge Stratus what a good car it is (while giving its dash board an affectionate pat), it will continue to provide safe, reliable transportation all the way to my destination. Thus far, I’m still in one piece.
I took the personification of my vehicle one step further this morning when I began pondering whom it would mate with, if such a thing were possible. Another Dodge Stratus, right? Wrong! That would be incest. All Dodge Stratuses are siblings, I decided. Sort of like twins, times a million. Dodge Intrepids are their mature older siblings, Dodge Chargers and Avengers are their devilish younger siblings, and Dodge Rams are their bad-ass cousins. Basically, my car is not allowed to have sex with anything bearing the Dodge name. Any other make and model would be acceptable, though.
It was only after I finished this last thought that I realized I had just spent a good half hour figuring out the hypothetical sex life of my CAR. My CAR! Boy, when my mind wanders, it really gets lost in the woods. Deciding who my car should do it with is the sort of thought that would occur to a GUY, which made me empathetic to all you fuckers who have a chick in the passenger seat going, “What are you thinking about?”, certain that it must be something as deep and meaningful as the thoughts in her own head. Ladies: it seldom is.
Incest, in broad daylight. Where’s Social Services when you REALLY need them?
Author: Britt Warner
