Monday, October 11, 2004

After a solid year of driving, I’ve developed a special bond with my car. I haven’t gone so far as to name it, and thus we’ll call it the Nameless One, but I have nurtured an unspoken agreement with it. I keep the Nameless One filled with premium gas; it takes me wherever I want to go. I purchase the Nameless One new tires occasionally; it helps me zoom past those fetid Hummers, a subject we’ll consider another day. I bring in the Nameless One for an oil change every ten- to fifty-thousand miles; it promises to start.

That’s enough “I’s” and semicolons for today, so let’s cut straight to the chase. The one thing that would elevate this relationship to dizzying heights is simple: the Nameless One must get rid of its FRICKNASTY SPOILER. If we were talking about driving, say, back in 1989, then perhaps this appendage would attract women like no other pheromone, organic or alloyed. I suspect you’d only need to drive a mile or two, look in your rearview mirror, and pay witness to six or seven hotties glued unreasonably to your spoiler. Some would have their tongues embarrassingly fused to the damn thing, while others would have their hair hopelessly entangled around your speed enhancer.

Unfortunately, we’re not living in 1989. De-spoilering a car, auto enthusiasts would likely argue, is akin to declawing a cat. It’s unnatural. Inhumane. Illegal. But it’d just feel so good.