Every so often I see people who insist on backing into a parking space. It’s a preference of people who either see themselves as very important or who are planning to rob one of the shops. Either way, police would be justified in shooting out their tires.
Theoretically the drivers want to leave the parking space very quickly. If nothing else, they need to make up for the two hours it took them to back in.
“One more turn and I should have it.”
“Honey, the store closed 45 minutes ago.”
I live in North Carolina, where on a summer day your car door will get hot enough to brand cattle. “On the count of three we’ll push Bessy up against the sedan.” If my car has been parked outside for more than 30 minutes, I am afraid to touch the door handle without some sort of hot pad, the kind of thing you use to remove a casserole from the oven. I would be better prepared except I worry that it would look a little strange if I was seen walking through a parking lot while wearing shorts, flip flops, and oven mitts.
And the winning entry in the humor writing contest is...
MY INVISIBLE CAR
by Leslie Huffman
Having an invisible car is both a privilege and a burden. Mostly a burden. O.K., it’s down right scary! When I purchased my large gray-green Honda minivan, I had no idea that, like Harry Potter, it had a cloak of invisibility.
So to my surprise, when driving home from the gym one morning, this guy stopped at a stop sign pulled right out in front of my big van that was moving 40 miles an hour and collided into my front end. That was just the beginning.
It has taken me years of learning defensive driving techniques to live comfortably with my Magic Bus. Those who don’t “believe” just need to take a ride with me. I am dodging cars left and right that cut me off, pull out in front of me and hit my car when it’s parked. None of which is ever my fault.
After my second fender-bender, when a girl late for work rammed into the backside of my car totaling my bumper and sliding door, I began a personal relationship with the collision center. Next, there was a kiss with my neighbors car, a side swipe in a parking lot, and a showdown with my garage door (that one was my fault).
(This is an entry in the contest to win the new book from Dave Barry.)
by Scott Donaldson
My first car was a 1971 Ford F-100 side step truck. It was a “three on the tree” manual transmission with a V-6 motor. The battery was attached with a nylon rope, the road was visible through holes in the floor and the radio played through a drive in movie theater speaker. The truck ran on regular gas and country music. I kept a red golf umbrella in the rear window gun rack to demonstrate my civility.
This truck was very simple. I worked on everything: brakes, electrical you name it. I never took a trip of any duration without my tools and I had a lot of tools.
One fall weekend, I was robbed. The thief took my stereo and phones, the typical household electronic stuff. They chose the wrong person to rob, I wasn’t poor, I just didn’t have anything, and I lived in a bad part of town. The thief left through a back door. In order to leave, he had to push my ten year collection of tools out of the way.
Funning thing is, the tools were my only valuables. The tools allowed me to fix my truck so that I could get to work. I guess he didn’t want to steal the tools. Carrying tools might have been morally confusing. He might have felt he should use those tools and actually work. He might have actually earned a slow dollar. Slow dollars you keep, fast dollars, stolen dollars,…they are gone in a vapor.
There was a story in the news about Mazda recalling 65,000 cars because of spiders. I don’t know much about cars, but that seemed a little odd to me.
From what I can tell, set designers for horror films make some money on the side by also creating parking structure stairwells. At least, many of the ones I have seen look like they should have a sign that says, “Future site of a double homicide!” Parking structure stairwells tend to look a little scary, even when compared to, say, graveyards or medieval prisons. In fact, they make the average theme park haunted house look like a quaint bed and breakfast, someplace suitable for small weddings and commitment ceremonies.
Not that parking structure stairwells aren’t functional. For instance, the metal handrails are made so that any bloodstains can be easily hosed off. And the flat cement on the landings is ideal for chalk outlines. The only missing features are spools of crime scene tape built into the walls on industrial toilet paper dispensers, maybe with a sign that says, “Please cordon off your murder before leaving.”
It can be awkward taking your car in for service when you don’t know the terminology. “There’s a noise coming from the thingy.” The mechanic tends to look at you like you’ve suffered a head injury. “Do you need a doctor?” There is also a fear that they will take advantage of the situation, charging you for services and parts that only exist in the boating world. “$6,000 for a new rudder?”
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