Monday, September 20, 2004

A week or two ago, as the sun set on a long workday, I trudged up the parking complex to discover my car covered in shit. Some fiendish fowl had decided that my automobile was a toilet, and having made up its mind the bird happily soiled my roof and hood with gleeful abandon. Since then, Mother Nature has kindly offered a few days of glorious, cleansing rain, all of which had little effect on bird droppings impervious to water.

BP, with their enticing claims of “touch-free” carwash technology, lured me into paying $8.00 for an Ultimate Wash. You’d figure a carwash labeled so superlatively, developed by no less than British purveyors of petroleum, would make my car fantastically clean. I rolled up my windows and marveled as the computer articulated each step of the process: undercarriage wash, power wash, triple-coated polish, power rinse, spot-free rinse, power-coated spot-free rinse, power dry, get the hell out of here.

Given the hype and the dazzling colors, I expected BP to hire displaced circus midgets, push them into the fray, and have them lick the filth out of the dark crevices of my car. I drove out of the carwash into a beautiful Sunday afternoon, and five minutes later I parked so I could survey the cleanliness. Guess what, gentle reader? The bird poop was still there, though I suppose it was cleaned and polished. I must have missed the “guano enhancing” step when my windows were sprayed with colorful wax. Note to self: invest your $8.00 in napkins next time.