(Actually, Neal thinks it was the jumper cables, not the car. I'm pretty sure there's a metaphor for my life in there somewhere, but I'm not sure where.)
So we drive it home.
Neal: "Now, aren't you glad you didn't write that negative entry insulting my car?"
Me: "Uhhh..."
So now I owe Neal's car some poetry, to make up for the mean things I said yesterday. Some haikus.
Crappy silver car
I am so sorry for the
things I said about
you yesterday. I
should have thought that maybe the
sticky stuff on the
cupholder is the
glue that holds you together.
I did not realize
that your hatchback is
just more room for extra car
lovin'. Oh, crappy
silver car. Don't be
mad at me. I am just one
simple girl, tired
of pushing your old
deadbeat slacker ass around
the block and back to
our driveway. Oh, Car.
Please stop crying those big fat
tears of green coolant.
No, really. Stop it.
Please? Stop? Shit. Well, at least you
are still running, car.
You only cost Neal
and me five-hundred dollars,
and one or two of
your stickers might be
cool anywhere but on a
car. But we know you
didn't put them there.
And you can't help the way you
reek. And hey, who knows?
Maybe the smell is
coming from Neal, right? But we
probably shouldn't
mention that to him.
Anyway. Car, I also
know it's not your fault
that Neal stuffs you full
of crap and never cleans you,
making me sneeze like
crazy every damn
time I have to sit in you.
It's all cool, though, Car.
At least you have a
sort-of working radio.
Anyway, Car, I
just wanted to thank
you for hauling Neal's butt back
and forth to work each
day, and to tell you
Happy Late Valentines Day,
and if you break down
before we're ready
for you to die, we will not
hesitate to take
your rusty ass straight
back to the greasy sleazebags
who sold you to us.
We love you, Neal's Crappy Car. Yes, we truly do.
(Don't croak, OK?)
