Wednesday, September 20, 2006

Even Creatures of the Night Deserve a Little Bling

Today was an uneventful morning. I woke up, did my business, stepped out the door and proceeded to my tiny truck of awe inspiring terror. It may appear innocuous to the casual passerby, but it's a hellion just ready to be unleashed on the world. The evil is pervasive, yet subtle. Ever read Stephen King's Christine? Or perhaps you're more familiar with his monumental work of cinematographic genius, Maximum Overdrive?

Every trip in this thing is a carnival ride, and not some class act ferris wheel you'd ride at the State Fair, but a vomit inducing whirlygig with rusted out safety restraints and a few bolts missing because it was erected in a parking lot of a strip mall in just under two hours time. It's got everything but the leering, one-eyed carny with weathered tattoos coursing his frame and teeth befitting only the most ambitious of meth heads.

Upon reaching my sweet ride, lo and behold. The mark of the beast.

Some little fuckwit tagged my truck. There is now a gold stripe of spray paint coursing the length of the driver's side. This stripe joins a motley assortment of dents, dings, scratches, key marks, traded paint, grease and dusty monsoon film. It adds a feral beauty to my untamed beastie, reminiscent of an adolescent act of rebellion like a mohawk or a safety pin through the ear.

Seeing how my vehicle is demonspawn, it's fitting that its outward appearance now reflects the depth of its inner machinations. In a recent attempt on my life, the driver's side seat belt broke. Rather than give that bitch the satisfaction of seeing me grovel at the dealership, I've decided to beat it at its own game. I cleverly buckle into the passenger's seat belt, and pending company I thread the center belt through the driver's and strap in.

Since I foiled its plan to become a death trap in the event of an accident, it decided to erase all evidence of what gear I'm ever in as retribution. Silly beastie. I just count the clicks and flip it into neutral when I mistakenly think I'm in second gear instead of drive. Man beats metal. Try harder next go round.

I shouldn't have woken the sleeping dragon with a noogie and my dance of in your face all out victory. I pissed it off. It's now decided that any time I'm enjoying the breeze of air conditioning, assuredly a smart stipulation in this barren wasteland of eternal damnation, and have come to a full and complete stop, it's going to buck my foot off the brake in a valiant effort to impale itself on the nearest vehicle. This is no mischievous tomfoolery. The intent of this action is bodily injury, and maybe latent cannibalism.

My little truck deserves this defacement. No longer will people be duped by its veneer of innocence and bird shit. Hell on wheels just got inked and it's grasp of intimidation knows no bounds.

If you see a trail of frightened cats, crying children, and shocked soccer moms, now you know where to lay blame.

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