My dying chariot.

Was that dramatic enough?  Who has access to chariots in 2011?  Two kinds of people.  Vegas-dwelling pharaonic imitators that have giant posters on their bedroom wall of Charlton Heston.  And Snads.  What is a Snads?  It is a me.  An I.  A fourth dimensional-dwelling street tough who is trying to do right by his baby’s momma and join the Afghan Super Snipers and make something of himself.  Um…….what?

Yes, anyway, my car–I mean chariot.  I was racing into the exotic-tourist-trap-of-a-state, Maine today in search of a store that peddles sex toys, pornographic dvd’s, mentos (the fresh maker), and all kinds of things you would find a United States senator browsing with their husband or wife.  However, they also sell an herb so sacred to the Transcendant Association of Warlocks & Goblins (the acronym of which spells out as “STUPID”) that I dare not speak it, lest this steady infrared nip on my chest be replaced by the entrance wound of a bullet that has been painted with the face of a meerkat.  Driving along… car–I mean chariot, lunges forward slightly.  Again.  Again.  I don’t know if it is humping me while inside of it (that’s what she said) or if it has a speech impediment that manifests in physical jerking motions.  Either way, I scream rape.  Nobody hears me so I roll down the window and scream out “RAPE SQUARED!”  Someone throws an empty beer bottle at my car.  Now my feelings are hurt. How do you sue for “anonymous assault & battery”?  What the hell does it even have to do with the Energizer bunny anyway?  Stupid justice system.  Yea, justice for young, punk pink upstarts with their musical instruments and 80’s shades.

Eventually, I pull over and allow the engine to idle, texting my brother and my girlfriend that my car is dying.  That the engine is failing.  Unable to hold back the tears any longer, I dramatically shove the door open, tripping to the ground.  I mount my car, realizing that I just used the word “mount”, and the following unfolds:

You may recognize the fellow in the above footage taken by a civilian at the scene of my car yesterday.  It is my double.  Double the Snads???  Are you that lucky?  Today you are.  But yesterday I was not.  I almost lost my car.  I even tried cpr on it, to no avail.  Man, my double and I were pissed.  Nay!  We were double pissed.

Eventually I managed to arrive at a gas station.  I pulled up next to the pump, my car creaking to a stop.  Lightning ripped through the dark sky above and torrential rains pounded the roof covering the gas pumps.  An elderly man approached me, whispering to beware the Ides of March, to which I responded, “I have two eyes already, thanks.”  I rollerbladed into the quasi-store and bought 2 quarts of oil.  Apparently my engine had no oil in it for the most part, which I hear is important to maintaining the healthy glow of your car’s self esteem.  After having breast fed the engine with the liquid of darkness, it didn’t give me trouble again.  However, now I am paranoid that something is going to explode in my car anyway; maybe if I got it better protection?  I am lacking in ideas for that, as my “condom car” experiment failed miserably last spring.

The lesson of this whole experience?  Make sure you are breastfeeding your car regularly.

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