| "AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HUMOR"TM
SHOWCASE
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February
/ March 2006 Contest Results |
Car Go Vroom!
(Most Of The Time)
By
Gregg
Podolski, New Jersey
In retrospect,
instead of dropping $900 on my first car, it would have been easier (and
cheaper) to simply walk up to all the attractive girls in my high
school, one at a time, and tell them I was gay.
It certainly
couldn’t have hurt my chances any worse than my 1984 Buick Regal, a car
that would later be imported by China as a way to curtail teen
pregnancy.
Had I any
working knowledge of mechanics, I probably could have fixed the
vehicle’s myriad problems in a weekend. Sadly, the only thing I’ve
learned over the years about auto maintenance is that, when checking the
oil, taste has nothing to do with it.
The good news is
that I’m not alone. There are tons of men out there who don’t know the
first thing about fixing cars, including doctors, lawyers, and auto
mechanics. These are regular, hard-working guys, shamed by society
simply because they possess the same amount of automotive knowledge as
ham.
Fellas, it’s
okay. Ask any psychiatrist and they’ll say that admitting you have a
problem is the first step towards making excuses for it, so allow me to
start the healing process:
Hello, my name
is Gregg, and I first realized my mechanical deficiencies eight years
ago. I was still courting my wife (which is to say I listened to her
when she spoke and occasionally used a fork to eat mashed potatoes),
when we found ourselves traveling down the highway, listening to a
rather ominous clanking sound coming from beneath the hood of my Ford
Tempo. Naturally concerned for her safety, I ignored it.
Whenever I’m
driving alone, this method has always seemed to remedy the problem. On
this day, however, the only thing it remedied was my wife’s desire to
bear my children; her idea was for me to pull over and take a look at
the engine.
Though this
suggestion lacked even a kernel of logic, my wife employed her keen
debate skills by bringing up the very valid point that she did, indeed,
have breasts. Even today, after eight years together, it’s an argument
that works no matter what the circumstance.
So I pulled
over. Two hours later, after much poking and prodding, my wife finally
pointed out that I was looking in the trunk (which explained why the
engine had suddenly transformed into a pair of dirty football cleats).
At the front
with the hood up, I discovered two things right away:
1) Tempos don’t
have the kind of hoods that stay up by themselves.
2) Head wounds
bleed a lot.
On the plus
side, pinned beneath the hood, I got a great view of the bent fan blade
that had caused the clanking; now all I had to do was fix it. Ten
minutes later, I’d checked both the oil and windshield washer fluid, yet
the fan still remained bent. Kicking the tires did nothing either, nor
did cursing at the fan loudly.
I was stumped.
Thankfully,
while I utilized my vast array of profanity, my wife utilized her cell
phone to call a tow truck driver, who took one look at the bent fan and
informed me that it had nothing to do with the clanking sound I’d heard.
Turns out some
random part that cost .005 cents to make and $1,500 to install had
cracked, which is common in cars with warranties that have recently
expired.
I did take one
lesson away from the experience: After losing several pints of blood,
getting ripped off by a repair shop doesn’t hurt as bad.
http://www.thefunnyside.net
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