January 18
 
 
 

My hair looks better in a new car, I've gotta confess...
 
 
 
 
 
 

Yesterday afternoon at about 4:35, I left work for my last ride in Mister T.  All kidding aside, I was getting a little choked up about the whole thing, and had to keep reminding myself that I was trading him for a better car, something that would save me money and keep me just as safe.  The night before, as I was cleaning him out, I was talking to him.  Yep, talking.  I am, in fact, a moron.  In any case, I was talking to him:  "Look. Someone is going to buy you! Someone NICE.  Someone with a farm!  Someone who'll never make you put anything pointy or stinky in your bed! A farm full of SOFT things! A pillow farmer!  And, they won't drive as fast as me! Nope!  But, you'll get to do a lot of fun offroading! It's going to be great for you! No, stop looking at me like that!"  So, as I drove to pick Nick up, I had sort of this glum resolve tempered with unspeakable excitment.  It was like I was on a death march, but on a death march to HEAVEN or Graceland or something.

We arrive at the dealer, and I clear out the remaining things:  The Dude Who Lives in My Car.  A little Turdmonster.  A monkey.  An umbrella.  I hop down and shut the door--and this is where the drama enters--for the last time, and by god, there were actual tears in my eyes.  We walk in, and are greeted by Jennifer, the saleswoman.  She does some salesy like business, and we walk out to take a look at my new car.

She goes over the the outside, the alarm, the door locks, body stuff, hatchback stuff.  She opens the car and turns it on.  She invites me to sit behind the (my) wheel.  More features.  Moonroof! Seat stuff! Telescopic steering wheel!  And then, she turns on the radio.  Now, taking my entry from the other day into consideration, can you guess the song that blared out?  Can you? I couldn't have planned it better, coulnd't have, in all of my wildest dreams or sarcastic snottery chosen a more perfect song.  My friends, it was Taps.

I looked out at Nick.  "Heh," I said,  "Well, that's pretty ominous!"

We get out of the car.  I am told to go and get the exact mileage from the truck.  So much for my quick and tearful goodbye.  In the end, I am forced to go back into the truck once more (forgot my parking pass), though after I sign all of the VW loan papers, the title, the registration, my life, whatever and hand over the truck keys, she will NOT give them back to me or let me open it myself.  It is Not Mine Anymore.  Finally, the whole thing's done, the GTI is running outside, she shakes our hands and off we go.

The truck?  Of course it's parked next to the new car! I pet it's (notice: it went from "him" to "it") hood, one last time, lovingly and drive off and never look back.  Nope.  I hear it crying for me, a little, but it's tough love.  It'll be fine.
 

Now: for the important news.  Name of the new car, of course.  If you follow the logic that Mister T was named Mister T because he was big and black, you should all be able to guess the GTI's name.  Heh, heh.  It's funny.  Can't guess?  See the bottom of the page.
 
 
 
 

the other day   -   home   -   email   -   tomorrow
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

The car's name is Webster.  Because I am completely retarded, when I thought of that name, I sat at my desk and laughed my head off.  I laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed.  My second choice was, of course, "Arnold", but I had to go with what I thought of first.  Plus, who wants a car named Arnold? No offense meant to all the Arnolds out there, but it's kind of a dorky name.  Not like Webster, nosirree.