Lucille

On my morning caffeine run, I had to stop and get gas. That little light, you know the one? The one that tells you it's time to get gas, or time to start walking? It's been on for about two days. Instead of just giving it the wink and the gun,





I decided to stop and actually put gas in my car. That would save me from having to call one of my friends to a) take me to get gas, b)not have them answer the phone asking me if I need to go get gas, or c) leave me notes/texts/emails mentioning that you Can. Not. Wean a car off gas.

I pulled into the shell station, because everyone knows that gassing up from a clam just makes sense. Or maybe because it was closer. Anyway, I like going there because they have these little gadgets inside filled with oil, and if you turn the crank really fast it shows you why shell oil is better, or maybe how to get swine flu from touching stuff you shouldn't touch.

Anyway, after I paid for my gas, standing behind a guy who smelled like he'd been bathing in wine and vagina, I went out to pump my gas.
I started to drive off when an asshole in a tank of a car tried to rear end me. And then I saw her. Lucille.





Lucille was the car I drove about two cars ago. When I first moved back to my hometown, I had gotten into a bad accident and totalled my love, my all, my truck:




Now you may be asking yourself, how do you total a truck? It's not easy, but take one fiance, the desire to run away and get married, a patch of black ice, freezing temperatures, and your truck doing the hokie pokie (and turning itself around & around & around), which leads up to = big crash.
Also filed under the catergory : How I avoided marriage, but I digress.

When I got out of ICU, and came to stay down here to recover, my brother gave me Lucille.
Lucille had been in our family for quite some time. She was pretty hideous, but she was one of those cars you just can't help but love.

Maybe it was the tennis ball wedged permanently in the dash. Maybe it was the way I never looked behind me while backing up (and hit the gas meter just about every day while leaving for work-- that's how I knew it was time to stop backing up, and start driving forward), maybe it was the gay ass glow-in-the-dark stickers my brother's then girlfriend (his now wife) put on the ceiling of the cougar.

Bonuses: the front seat was broken, so if stomped on the gas too hard, and leaned against the seat, I would be on my back, looking up at those stars while the car soldiered along.
I tried fixing that (macgyvering it)


with a stadium seat:



and a can of spaghetti o's (strategically placed) right behind the driver's seat.




Sounds crazy, right? That actually worked, for as long as I had the cougar. That was another miraculous thing about the cougar, somehow, it had all this cool shit in it. No matter how many times I cleaned it, I would always find something crazy/random in there.
Since I don't eat spaghetti o's, and nobody in my family is really fond of that crappy ketchup/bread tasting pasta, there is no telling how that can got in there.

The end.