The Stupid Car

It's a new battery. This shouldn't be happening.

God-damn-son-of-a-bitch-piece-o'-crap car isn't starting. I put the key in the ignition this morning and it sputtered to life sounding like a cranky 15 year old I had just woken up. It turned back over and died again with a "harumph". Further attempts to turn it over only got me bitched at with squeals and sputters. I whipped out my cell phone and called work first, then the Calvary (Dad). I tried again.

This time, the car sort of started, but it was shaking. It felt exactly like I imagine a rocket feels right before it takes off to the moon. I made it the 100 feet down my driveway. That's where it died the second time, and it's sitting there now. Cars are cautiously driving by it because it's sort of, but not really, sticking out in the road. Another few inches back, and I'd have been in big trouble.

I'm usually amused at people who attempt to inflict pain on inanimate objects, but today, just now, I understood the appeal of cursing out something that can't actually hear you. I gave it one good kick with my OSHA approved dental clog, called it a son of a bitch and marched back into the house. Dad's coming; he'll show YOU, you piece of shit. (I said this once to a guy, too, actually.)

I was sort of secretly glad, though. When you're late to work, and it's not your fault, you have the opportunity to sit and do things. Like make your own coffee, or eat breakfast, watch morning music videos... or blog. Dad's here. Back to reality.