Fried Eggs

And I thought I to myself, "Why not share these little gems with my new friends on FriedEggs?" So, that's what I'm doing. I figure I'll toss something up here every now and then for your amusement and mockery...cuz that's how I roll.
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The Beast

I own a 1988 cabernet red Ford Mustang convertible. And it's evil. Not in that bad 1970's B-movie kinda way, but in the opposite of all that's good and holy kinda way. As in lacking any semblance of goodness. Now, I know what you're thinking: "Yeah, right, Bill, sure it is." But, I'm serious. It's evil. It's not possessed by some senior demon of the lowest gates of Hell. It doesn't whisper dastardly orders to me. It's just evil. You don't know what I mean, and if you only looked at the car from a distance, you'd still have no idea. You might look at it and see the paint damage on the front from an accident I was in some time ago, and you might think, "Well, sure, the way the red paint is chipped off, revealing the yellow primer beneath does kinda make it look like it's grinning an angry set of yellow teeth, but surely THAT doesn't make the car evil." And I would agree with you. And even if you went a step further and lifted the black metal handle of the driver's side door and sat gingerly down on the gray cloth seats, you would still lack the understanding which I am desperately trying to convey to you.

If you went further still and gazed at the gauges and lights on the dashboard of the car, you'd see only standard gauges and lights. You'd gaze at the amp meter in the upper left corner of the dash and you'd see that there was no excess of power tipping you off that the car was tapped into some great evil power source. There would be no indication of hellfire in the temperature gauge on the lower left. The gas gauge is sometimes finicky, not showing the level of gas in the tank until it's at about a quarter tank, but surely, there's no evil in that. It's simply a finicky gauge. The odometer doesn't read 666 or spell out evil messages.

And if you started the car and put it into gear, you'd hear only the hum of a well-tuned V-8, not the angry screech of some indescribable abomination. As you drove the car, you'd still think I was insane. It rides beautifully, with stiff suspension and corners like it's on rails. As you drove along, you'd probably enjoy the ride, and find yourself being lulled into feeling content and slightly powerful behind the wheel of such a fine vehicle. That's when it happens. Some snot-nosed, blond-headed punk with a spike in his lip blows past you in a shiny silver Toyota Celica with the windows down blaring Michael Bolton. And slowly the gas pedal will begin to depress. Now, it's your foot doing it of course...and it's not as if the car is pulling your foot down. Your foot simply pushes the gas pedal down to the floor...and the car accelerates like nobody's business. And as you whistle past that little waste of space in the silver shitbox, a smirk slides its way across your face...until you see the flashing blue lights behind you. Then, and only then will you understand the evil that is a 1988 cabernet red Ford Mustang convertible.

Or at least that's my story...and I'm sticking to it. I suppose I could sell the car, and who knows, someday, I may find that I have to sell it just to pay for the speeding tickets. I think, however, that would be much akin to getting rid of the family dog because it barks too much. And after all, isn't that just the nature of the beast?

PS: I have since had to sell The Beast.

4/30/10

nothingprofound I've been in the same situation and I can state unequivocally, it's the car, not you.

4/30/10

Jayme That is the same kind of evil that possesses guys in monster trucks with 14" tall tires to tailgate people in little cars.

4/30/10