2003-05-02 3:31 p.m.
Today I drove to work in my car. This is how I drive to work every day. Well, every day except for all of last week when I had a rental car. I had a white, four–door Dodge Neon. My car was broken and in the shop.
Now, it should be very clear that when a car breaks, it is not that said car is actually broken. It is actually just acting out, trying to manipulate you in order to get what it wants. What is it trying to manipulate you to do? Simply, your car wants you to remember to take it to visit its favorite person, the mechanic. To your automobile, there is no greater joy than seeing you hand over those funny pieces of green paper or the plastic card with your name and numbers on it to the nice man with the tools.
The car loves the nice man with the tools.
And why? Because the nice man with the tools fondles and torques and lubes and squirts and juggles your car's nuts until the cows come home. An auto repair shop is like a full–service teenage hooker emporium for your car.
My car broke this week, so I took it to my mechanic, Rob. My car really likes Rob. Rob fondles my car in unspeakable ways. You know, the sort of stuff you only see on Japanese web sites. And, when the car visits Rob there is always a huge money shot at the end. My car really gets off on this part. This time the money shot was over $700, not including the $260 for the rental car.
When I came to pick my car up, my car was smirking and smoking a cigarette. Not only did it get off, but it got to watch me get fucked at the cash register in the auto shop's lobby. Damn cars and their insatiable hunger for power, attention, and financial control!
Ok, so back to the point. On my drive to work today I noticed a fun sticker–thing on the back of a car. It was a red, early 90's Japanese two–door car—the sort that you buy because you need something with four wheels that got good gas mileage. It was so average it was almost invisble, and I bet the owner didn't even know what model it was. It was the sort of car that nobody ever fell in love with.
On the lip of its hatchback, someone had neatly applied some black stick–on letters over the slightly fading red paint. The letters spelled out: BE HAPPY.
It was the best thing I had read all day. Granted, it was also the first thing I had read all day. But, still. I couldn't really imagine reading anything better all day, so why not give it first prize?
BE HAPPY. That's some good horse sense. I've always been gullible, and this was no exception. I took a deep breath and did exactly as the stick–on letters instructed.
I think I might even keep doing it tomorrow, too. I don't even need the stick–on letters.
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