Ok. So it doesn’t actually belong to the famous Hollywood director. Other than casting my car as an extra in another transformer movie, I really don’t think she’d be much good to him. Plus, she’s not exactly a youngin’. My car is a 2001 dodge neon, so it’s over a decade old. If Mr. Bay actually used Ashley (that’s what I call my car, but that’s for another time), it’d be like casting Betty White for a role in Act of Valor. It would be both beneath her and completely fucking retarded.
In case you couldn’t tell I think highly of my car.
So as you could imagine, it was devastating when I learned that I wouldn’t be able to drive her for a while. See, when trying to repair an almost inconsequential issue, the radiator decided it was time to call it quits. Of course, being MY car, she decided to display this in an extremely bombastic fashion. There was no moderate groaning, nor was there the calm, subtle “ping” of the check engine light. Nope. My car started smoking like a junior high school kid in behind the bleachers. We managed to get her home without anything exploding, but I was advised that she could literally blow up on me if I had to drive long distances. I.e, the two hours I have to trek on Friday when I move out to Tampa to attend UT. I honestly think that if I drove out on i4 in a smoking car, I couldn’t just explain to the cops that I have a barbecue going on under the hood. (The steak wouldn’t be tasty enough to bribe them out of a ticket when its saturated with gasoline).
So we decided that when I go out to school, I’ll have to leave her home for a couple of weeks before I come back out to retrieve her. Ultimately, no big deal. You know, it all works out in the end. No one got hurt, chuthulu wasn’t summoned; all in all a rather good day.
Look, I live in Orlando. It seriously wouldn’t surprise me if the tentacled head of that monster just popped out of an effigy of Mickey Mouse. I’m more than convinced that it would maybe qualify as the third weirdest thing to happen here.
So you could imagine my surprise when I learn that I have to pick up my little brother at Golf practice. In my car. The ticking fucking time bomb.
I mean, I’m not angry with my parents for asking me to do it. I’m not bitter about having to drive out to get him. Believe it or not, sometimes I have some enzyme in my brain that is chemically similar to whatever the hell catalyzes into a helpful attitude. No, what I can tell you is that I while I wasn’t angry, I was paranoid as, well, someone driving two tons of possibly explosive steel and glass.
I’ve had some scary experiences in my life. After all, I sat through the entire showing of Prometheus. I didn’t know when/if my brain cells would ever recover from that. Still, even with that monstrosity (pun only mildly intended. Like, my commitment to it is so neutral that if you asked “pun intended?” I’d merely respond with “meh”), it didn’t compare to the terror that is driving as the temperature gauge creeps up into the danger zone. I would fantasize about how I would escape the steaming metal death trap.
Of course, my car would have the courtesy to tell me it was going to blow up first. And she would do it as a supervillian out of an Ian Flemming novel. Hey, it’s my fantasy. Considering my mind- admit it- it’s not as sordid as you could think:
“I hope you’re prepared for the inevitability 00-22/7. This vehicle will seal your fate as a twisted coffin of explosive steel.”
“I am prepared for every inevitability, Ashley. Just like this one. Activating brakes!”
*Thud. Thud Thud. Squeal. Thud.*
“The hell?”
“I anticipated your anticipation-”
“So you over-thought it?”
“apparently not.”
“Fair enough.”
“And so I cut the brake line. Oh, and I locked the doors from the outside and replaced your windows with diamond.”
“Isn’t that like prohibitively expensive? How in the hell do you expect me to foot this bill when I get out of here?”
“I don’t expect you to foot the bill 00-22/7. I expect you to die.”
Fifteen seconds later, cue the epic explosion that Michael Bay assisted in producing. It’s fueled with Mel Gibson’s batshit lunacy.
Fortunately for me, I managed to make the drive to the Golf course without any such supervilliany. That is, of course, excluding the drivers on the road. And now she sits outside of my house, headlights staring out into space, unable to come with me to Tampa for the first couple of weeks. All she can do now is just fantasize about what it would be like to be in Hollywood as Mr. Bay’s vehicular understudy.
causticcookies 