If the ACLU sends me one more goddamn promotional packet in the mail, I will tirelessly lobby for a dystopian society until such a time as our pavement runs crimson with the nectar of abortion. You see, the red will come from me because I’ll be sitting in the city park, munching on fetus flesh, drafting a shoo-in for Amendment XXVIII wherein every civil liberty is abolished absolutely, all the while checking for funny pictures in ourmail@privacyrights4evah.gov, the unified e-mail account for everybody on earth.
I’m not sure how they secured my address, though I suspect my liberal leanings–made startlingly clear by my liberally free subscription to The New Yorker–have something to do with it. More importantly, why did they ignore my written request for list removal? I guess the embattled freedom of my mailbox doesn’t even register as a vector on their golden roadmap. And I– Why, hello there.
You noticed our lack of discussion near the end of last week, I’m sure, along with a picture of an intriguing device. I take no credit for making the image, although the act of publishing it was rather trying. Was it a cop-out? Yes. Would a conversation have been any better? Probably not. Were I to receive a report card for last Thursday and Friday, it would look like this:
Communication: F+
Ability to find a picture of a stunning scientific apparatus: A for Freaking Awesome
We’ll chat tomorrow about why the meter registered at approximately .001.
Buying a car, much like skinning a cat or making a baby, is one of those circumstances that induces advice from every conceivable outlet with lips. The moment you express the desire to drive something different, a fearsome portal opens to a sea boiling with a thousand bits of wisdom necessary for the perfect purchase. These are not suggestions, mind you, but dire preconditions for continued existence. It’s enough to make you lock yourself in a trunk.
Negotiate over the phone. Negotiate in person. New. Used. Lease. Buy. Steal. Choose from the lot. Order from the factory. Find out the trade-in value of your ex. Don’t even bother, because those price lists are the handiwork of Lucifer and some foreigners. Three wheels good, four wheels better. The truth lies in the grassy knoll, and maybe also in a stork.
I’m not an auto enthusiast, so for me this process is similar to getting a t-shirt at the mall. Working arm holes? High-five, man, high-five. The primary keyword here is functionality, with reliability holding a close second. I want a car that moves well and tends to stay together, and let’s not forget the guideline to which I’m adhering no matter what. The vehicle cannot have a spoiler.
Originally I planned on getting a Saab 9-3 Linear, but that was before I realized I’m not in my 30’s yet, nor do I wish to possess so open an invitation for having my hood keyed. A Scion would be much more appropriate. I’ve read the reviews, gotten ample advice, and I hope I won’t be the biggest rube ever to walk into a dealership. Which Scion do I want? Here’s a clue: it’s the one that doesn’t look like a hearse for hobbits.
