There is a very nice car, one of those older Lincoln Towncars that looks like it could easily sleep 12. Very well-kept, sparkling wax job, perfect whitewalls.
The man who got out of it after coaxing it, sputtering and backfiring, to the curb was exquisitely dressed... tailored suit, immaculate shoes, beautiful tie. He opened the hood and delicately poked and prodded at various bits of engine, then he climbed back in and tried to get it started.
The engine would spit and snarl and then die with a fart. More fiddling, more starting, more snarling and farting.
Finally he stood and looked into the engine for a long time, hands clasped behind his back. After the zen moment, he opened the truck and took out a crowbar.
He then beat the bloody hell out of the engine.
After he threw the crowbar back in the trunk, he slammed the hood and trunk lid shut, straightened his tie, and marched off to the corner bus stop.
The corpse is still at the curb. A bird just crapped on it.
Requiescat in pieces.
From the volume, it looks like it was a Hereford.
Posted by: LeeAnn at October 18, 2004 09:51 AMYou gotta admire his conviction. Who hasn't wanted to do that but then chickened out with some lame excuse like "it's all I've got" or "I can't afford another car"?
Posted by: Rob at October 18, 2004 10:42 AMThat's good. I've been known to kick my car on occasion. My car before the one I drive now, had a dent in the fender from me kicking it once. Ha!
Posted by: tina at October 18, 2004 07:47 PM