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The thing is, if it turns out the citizens of the great State of California actually like low vehicle license fees, almost no property tax, decaying K-12 public education and the circus atmosphere of budgetary sleight-of-hand in lieu of responsible fiscal management, then my career is meaningless before I even graduate.
As anyone who has driven in San Francisco can tell you, two wrongs don’t make a left, but three rights do.
One day, I’m going to get up in the morning, go to the bank, withdraw $5,000 in cash, climb into my little red car and hit the road.
“Did you hear about that car door slamming Little Timmy’s hand this weekend?” the instructor asked the school’s principal; “I hear that with his fingers all smashed, he’s slurring all his signing, and that the kids have taken to calling him Elmer Fudd.”
Henry didn’t know what to think of all the new cars.
First, I swerved around an orphan construction cone, lying in the middle of the road, next a trash can and a recycling bin and soon after that a couple of bags of clothes and a baby stroller, but a mile down the road when I locked my brakes up to stop for an entire flatbed-load of lumber spread across the highway, I decided to back up to the blind corner a couple hundred yards back, throw out a road flare and slow down traffic until the cops showed up because this dream clearly was not going to reach any type of destination any time soon and I might as well settle in and make myself useful.
Henry’s life felt like the flapping sound of his car’s retreads - that moment just as the rubber pulls free and all hell breaks loose.
With Jimmy the Quirk hot on his heels—wearing the monkey mask, no less!—Henry hit the gas pedal hard.
After he’d finished philosophizing for the day, Soren K. liked to race around town in his convertible, pulling up beside attractive women and telling them, “Hey, baby, it’s subjectively true that you’d like to make a leap of faith on in here to sit beside me.”
Just about the time I start to forgot all about my friend Schuster, he’ll show up with a six-pack, that human skull that’s always rolling around in the trunk of his car, and a week’s worth of hats he’s stolen from barbershops around town.
Capturing the pre-teen angst was not Dr. Rankins idea of a good time, but his car was getting nearly 50 miles per gallon off the stuff, so he didn’t complain.
“I try not to judge people by their cars—I really couldn’t care less about them as status symbols—but I have noticed that I’ve never been friends with anyone who drives a BMW,” commented Juan as yet another BMW failed to yield a merge on the highway.
After that day back in ‘77 when someone broke out the wing window of the Angel of Mercy’s Cutlass and stole the radio, things were never quite the same.
I have an old Buick Century with a very large trunk, large enough to accomodate an IRS agent, a shovel and a bag of lime.
“Soon” is a beautifully abstract term which I choose to define as “in about two years when it’s time to get my car smog-checked.”
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