THE PAPAL CONCLAVE

The Papal Conclave has begun, and people seem pretty revved up about it. They love their religions, and they are fiercely protective of them. People of different faiths are warring all over the world, because they have faith that their faith is more faithful than your faith. Sure, they may commit an atrocity or two here and there but it’s absolutely okay, since God rules much the same as my parents did: “Go play outside and don’t do anything stupid.” Religions only exist because no one wants to believe that after you die is probably not that much different than before you were born. So everyone is struggling to make a good impression before judgment day.

And now the Papal Conclave will sequester itself for a period of time, and the cardinals will finally emerge as a butterfly. Or am I thinking of a pupa? No matter.

What people do agree on is that the church is going to have to change with the times in order to survive. How will the church move into the 17th Century and remain relevant? Should Catholics practice birth control even if they are good at it? Should there be women priests? Should there be male nuns? Should the church allow abortion, especially for couples who meet on Christian Mingle? Do we want a more active pope or just a guy sitting around pontificating?

What about the pope’s mode of dress? The hat makes him appear taller, which is good. But the chasuble is not very slimming. How about in addition to papal vestment, a papal sweater-vestment? Maybe a fleece (like Governor Christie’s) that reads, “POPE, World Spiritual Leader.”

Also, how do we deal with the miracle situation? These days, there are security cameras EVERYWHERE, and when somebody says that they parted the Red Sea, you can just check the video tape, and BANG, it’s only a fat guy doing a can-opener into the deep end. Looking back at the paintings, it’s obvious that Moses can’t even part his hair, let alone the Red Sea.

During the conclave, rising out of the Vatican will be either black smoke signifying that they have not elected a pope, white smoke signifying that they have, or blue smoke signifying that one of the cardinals has accidentally lit their hair on fire.

Rumors flew that Regis Philbin or Dennis Rodman might be elected. Archbishop Dolan was considered, but in the end, seemed just a little too happy to be at the party, as if he might put a whoopee cushion under somebody’s seat.

On TV they showed a ceremony where all the cardinals stand in line for about 45 minutes so they can touch a page of the bible. This takes place in the Sistine Chapel, which I visited once. It was an incredible sight, or so I am told. I couldn’t see anything since they keep the lighting at the level of dusk, so that Michelangelo’s ceiling will be preserved. The whole scene is very serene, and very peaceful, except for a security guard yelling, ‘NO PHOTO! NO VIDEO!!!!”

Just getting into the place was hard enough, since they have a strict dress code. Once we cracked the code, we realized my wife’s dress was too short, and she had to buy a pair of paper pants for five dollars. Inside, every single work of art contains either a nude woman or a little baby penis, so go figure. Walking around in paper pants with all those candles around, they must lose a couple hundred tourists a year to spontaneous combustion.

During the conclave the frescoes of the Sistine Chapel were brightly lit for the television cameras, and seeing them thus, they seem a little gaudy- maybe it’s time to redecorate? Maybe something a little less busy up there.

Then it happened: The new pope was elected. The crowd in St. Peter’s Square erupted in rapturous rejoicing because they now had a new spiritual leader. Thank goodness, because for two days I noticed a lot of unled spirits heading for the casino, or over to Goldfinger’s. Especially excited was the Argentinian contingent, who thought that soccer was somehow involved. I see no pressing reason to rejoice. I joiced once and see no reason to do it again.

This man is now one of the most powerful people in the free world. He can go anywhere he wants at any time, travel in a bulletproof glass vehicle that also has little saws that come out of the wheel hubs that can flatten the tires of any enemy vehicle that pulls up next to it, although I may be confusing that part with a James Bond movie.

He can say anything he wants at any time and no one will question him, unless they want to know what the heck he said, since he talks in Latin. Nobody but the pope speaks Latin anymore, despite the fact that everyone listens to Latin music.

Now the pope is now waiting to be installed, which is a union job. The Pope is always so old that if you look closely, you realize that during any speech he is screwed to the podium by about twelve toggle bolts, or else he would keel right over.

It all seems like a bunch of silliness to me, but the bottom line is I am keeping my options open, depending on how things are going when I am about to drop dead. I may rot in hell in one religion, but be reincarnated as Lindsay Lohan’s lawyer in another.


Incidentally, Catholics recognize St. Peter as the first pope, unless he is wearing a disguise. The term “pope” comes from the Latin word for “father,” and did not come into use until 366 AD. At least 20 popes were martyrs, which means that they were killed because of their religious beliefs. By the way one of their religious beliefs was that people should never be killed because of their religious beliefs. Another 14 popes were “allegedly” murdered, meaning that it was difficult to tell if they were actually dead.

WHAT DID YOU DO FOR VALENTINE’S DAY?

Valentine’s Day came and went, and I wanted to share a little bit of the magic with you.

Of course somebody brought those little candy hearts to work. I took one, but couldn’t read what it said without my glasses- I think it was, “Happy Valentine’s Day: You’re OLD.” What a challenge it must be to find meaningful phrases to print on those candies. It has to be succinct- whatever diatribe you put on Twitter in 140 characters is “War and Peace” compared to what you have to work with here. It can’t be too gender-specific, so “I HEART THE KNICKS!” could fall into the wrong hands.

Some of them have changed with the times- I saw “TEXT ME.” Don’t be so quick to replace “FAX ME” for those of us who do not text. Don’t forget the cover page.

The traditional messages still get right to the point: “BE MINE,” “KISS ME,” “LOVE YOU.” One said “LOVE HER.” Interesting, could be for a lesbian. I saw one that said, “PICK ME,” which may have been sent to me by my nose. I picture a big fat guy with a beard and a tattoo stamping these little hearts with tender messages. By the way, his aim is not too good. One just said “HAPPY.” Either fill in the blank yourself or maybe it could be secret love messages to the seven dwarfs. “WILL YOU BE MINE” is nice, but makes it seem like ownership of you could be transferred by next February.

How about we get a little more realistic with the phrases. “ORAL PLEASE!” or “DO ME” work nicely for both men & women. How about, “EMBEZZLE WITH ME!” I think “embezzle” is a cute, fuzzy-sounding word.

Giving candy for Valentine’s Day says to a woman: “I may or may not love you fat, we’ll see.”
Flowers are always a hit because they symbolize all that is alive and vibrant and colorful about a woman. Don’t read too much into the fact that the posies are dead in two days.

I prefer to give the gift of myself for Valentine’s Day, and do something fun with my wife. Once I thought it would be fun to go to the Botanical Gardens, we had never been. Here’s the thing: surprisingly little is in bloom in February. They did have a wonderful exhibit called, “Dead Things that are Still Beautiful,” or something like that.

I will take my Valentine to dinner for sure. But not every relationship is in full bloom when Valentine’s Day happens to come around. Some are on the upswing, and some in rapid decline, like a home that is just about to be foreclosed upon. The pressure of spending an entire meal together might be the last thing they need, and by the time they are done with the salad fork they have separate checks and separate cabs.

How about a movie? Careful. Once I took the Mrs. to a Coen brothers film. Rated 4 stars, seemed campy, what’s not to like? Well it turned out “No Country for Old Men” was not really a chick flick. We enjoyed some romantic moments during the trailers, but after that, one body after another dropped dead with alarming frequency, and I got a special look from my Valentine that said, “Yours will be the last body they scrape off the floor with the used gum.” From now on the perfect date movie is porno.

I also remember to give a card, and I slip a five dollar bill in there too, so she can pick up something just for her. We made Valentines in elementary school, a skill that I have honed during the years. I learned to write whatever sensitive feelings I had at the time, such as: “Roses are red, violets are blue, in which case why did they call them violets?” You had to make a card for everyone in the whole class (maybe even the boys? I can’t remember), when who I really wanted was the teacher, Mrs. Franz. Even as a kid I could tell she was harboring some smoldering secrets. I was kind of a teacher’s pet, which was why I had to eat from a separate bowl. I ended up with this friggin’ assembly line of red construction paper, doilies & glitter; back then there were no robotics. By the 25th one my handwriting was so illegible it either said, “Be My Valentine” or “Belly Vaseline.”

So if you forgot Valentine’s Day it’s certainly not too late. Well actually it is; I just found this out the hard way. So if you forgot too, just do what I did, and say, “Baby, to me EVERY day with you is Valentine’s Day!” Then RUN LIKE HELL. By the way, before you give the gift of yourself, first find out if she might prefer candy.


Incidentally, based on my hasty hagiography, Saint Valentine died on February 14th  (no one seems to remember the year). When people celebrate the day of your death it makes me think that they didn’t really like you as much as you thought. He died on the Via Flaminia in Rome, and I can vouch that the traffic on that road is murder. Saint Valentine is traditionally associated with the concept of “courtly love,” which essentially refers to hanky-panky between members of royalty and women not their wives. Courtly love these days usually results in a number of court appearances.

OUT FOR COCKTAILS

I like to go out and have a cocktail on a Friday night, but I can't stand the fact that everyone at the bar is half my age, and they seem disdainful that people older than they are cluttering up the place. I feel vaguely like a chaperon for a school field trip, like I should be over near the door checking everyone’s permission slip. Every generation thinks that they will be the first one not to age.

So I Googled "over 30 bars," and through the magic of the internet, over thirty bars came up. I changed the search to “bars for older alcoholics and/or people that don’t know how to use their own cell phones” and came up with a bunch of jazz bars and wine bars, totally inappropriate for me. I ended up at the same place I usually go, and I realized that “over-30” is still 20 years younger than I am.

Once in a while I see a mother out with her daughter for one of their birthdays, posing for self-photography with an outstretched camera, a timeless memento featuring both of their faces and one of their forearms. Mom looks at me as if I was planning to eat her young, and I scoff at her. I’m not going to eat your stupid baby, lady, I have gum.

I asked a girl if she wanted to dance, and to my surprise she said yes. She was pretty good at it so I watched her for a while, then found myself a beer at the bar. I don't dance very often, usually only if someone is shooting at my feet, or if a Michael Jackson song comes on, an old one that he recorded when he was still alive. It always amazes me how many songs people come out with after they are dead. I flail around on the dance floor in a haphazard way, moving various body parts to perfect rhythm in conflicting and disturbing directions, like a traffic cop at a twelve-way intersection.

In the tiny bathroom I am trying not to make eye contact with the attendant; the bathroom is
THE most inappropriate place for small talk (“Sooooo… How’s it hangin’????). I wash my hands and he hands me a paper towel. I tip him a dollar and I realize that paper towels in nightclub men's rooms are the most expensive anywhere. He looked thankful that the bathroom did not have a hand blower instead. What would I tip him for a blow in a nightclub men's room? Remind me to look that up somehow.

A chick came up to me and yelled, "TOM PETTY!" Jesus, really? Have you taken a good look at
Tom Petty? I may have the hair, but the guy has buck teeth and no chin; he looks like a chipmunk. No offense, because he is one of the most prolific songwriters of my time (Tom Petty, not the chipmunk), and when all is said and done people will realize how many great hit songs he had. They will also realize how little we got done.

I'm always getting told I look like a famous person. Someone once said I looked like Todd Rundgren. Seriously- Todd has a long, rubbery face that looks like it was made of Play-Doh then left for many years on a planet that has much more gravity than ours. The last time I saw him he was wearing a skirt, which was fine, but for god’s sake SHAVE YOUR LEGS. A guy recently said that I look like Paul McCartney, and I’m not kidding you can ask my wife. The only thing I have in common with Paul McCartney is that during the 70s we were both rumored to have been dead. Even a cartoon character I apparently look like: Shaggy from Scooby Doo, Where are You? I had an animated response to that one. A couple times I was told I look like the guy from “Dumb and Dumber.” “Jim Carrey?” I asked. “No, the dumber one.” Thanks.

Incidentally, the part of Scooby-Doo was played by voice actor Don Messick. “Mom! Guess what! I got the title lead in a network show!” Not content with that, he landed several other major network characters, notably, Astro the dog in The Jetsons, Muttley the dog in Wacky Races and Boo Boo the bear in Yogi Bear. Scooby-Doo’s name was originally to be Too Much, but programming executive Fred Silverman changed it, reportedly after Frank Sinatra’s scatty ending to “Strangers in the Night.” Thank goodness Fred Silverman was not a huge Little Richard fan, or the show would have been named Whomp Bomp a-loo-Bomp, a Lomp Bam Boom, Where are You?

THE YEAR IN BRIEFS

Let’s take time out this New Year to be thankful for the many wonderful things that happened in 2012. They were truly a blessing, but to be honest I don’t remember any of them. What I DO remember are the weird, wacky and wild stories that made us all cringe, the ones that made you glad that you were not vacationing in a foreign country when they broke, so that you didn’t have to fake a bad British accent so that people wouldn’t point a finger at you and whisper something snide in another language. Let’s relive those moments.

The Tanning Mom
If you could picture a catcher’s mitt with bright coral pink lipstick, you still couldn’t do justice to that face, a face incredulous against the scrutiny of a “concerned public,” a face that anthropologists long believed existed but never had seen. After this story, it was apparent to most responsible Americans that all catcher’s gloves should have coral pink lipstick on them so you can see where the hell you are throwing the ball.

Clint Eastwood Talks to Empty Chair at Republican Convention
No one has ever mentioned the possibility that someone had been sitting in the chair, and that after Eastwood rattled on for about 20 minutes about nothing, got up and left. I call him Chairman of the Bored.

“Fifty Shades of Grey”
When I first heard about this, I thought it was a book about my hair. Instead, it’s about a woman who falls in love with a 26 year-old billionaire who spanks her. I laughed, I cried, I was never the same afterwards, and that was just doing my taxes; I haven’t read the book. By the way, I have never seen a woman reading the actual book. Instead, they read it on Kindle, where you every book looks the same as “War and Peace.” I once had a girlfriend who was into that kind of B & D stuff- she eventually gave me a restraining order and I didn’t’ know what to do.

Squid Inseminates Woman
While eating a partially boiled squid in North Korea, a woman reported a burning sensation in her mouth, and went to the hospital. There doctors found that the squid had squirted its spermatophores into her cheeks. If she had eaten an ovulating female squid right before that, she would soon be expecting the pitter-patter of little tentacles around the house. At least she took the squid to dinner first. By far the most disgusting aspect of this story is that the squid must have been SUPER turned on by being eaten, and it was the strangest sexual experience the squid had had this year, except for a couple of dates from ChristianMingle.Com.

Lindsay Lohan Breaks Every Law in Alphabetical Order
This was not a great year for the struggling actress, but it turns out to be a FANTASTIC year for her lawyer. Her usual defense is that she is a target for those looking to get their “15 minutes of fame” by picking a fight with her. Lindsay is smarter than that now, and never spends more than 10 minutes in any one place. Overall, she has been sentenced to 186,452 hours of community service. But have you seen her community? The place is SPOTLESS! Every weed in the park is plucked individually with an eyelash tweezer.

Daredevil Jumps to Earth from Stratosphere
In October stuntman Felix Baumgartner became the first man to jump out of a balloon in outer space and fall safely to Earth. It was thought that he may burn up when passing through the blogosphere and Twittersphere, or that he might spin out of control like a Kanye West quote and be powerless to right himself, or that at the last minute someone might stick a trampoline underneath him, sending him back into space. The jump, however, was successful, and upon reaching the ground without incident his first words were, “I just KNEW my luggage was somehow going to end up at La Guardia.”

Tightrope Walker Traverses Niagara Falls
When I read my own headline I thought: OMIGOD he fell? But then I remembered he did not; Nik Wallenda became the first man to cross directly over Niagara Falls, the voice of his father calmly talking him through. How Dad resisted the urge to yell, “LOOK OUT BEHIND YOU! HAHAHAHA!” I will never know. Wallenda was forced to use a safety tether by ABC, who threatened to refuse to televise the event otherwise. He made the journey across to Canada without mishap, but then was killed by the mob when they found out he was wearing a wire.

Incidentally, the most talked-about story of the year is one which thankfully did not take place. On December 21st the end of the world was scheduled on the Mayan calendar. The Mayans actually used a system of three calendars, the Haab, a 19-month, 365-day solar count, the Tzolkin, a 260-day system, and the Long Count, which was used to track longer term astronomical events.  Naturally most Mayans put off their Christmas shopping until the last minute. Many people spent the 21st in bomb shelters, hoping that it would only be the end of the TOP of the world. Others phoned up girls that they normally would have NO SHOT with, hoping to catch them at a vulnerable moment. There are still approximately sixty-two ends of the worlds that we still have to get through, predicted by various prognosticators. By the way, “Congress Appreciation Day” is also on the Mayan calendar, and that never happened either. 

AFTER THE ELECTION*

Now that the dust has settled after the elections, one thing seems clear: we have a lot more dust than we thought. I exercised my right to vote, and now I have a cramp. State senators, assemblymen, district judges, what do all these people do? I guess we need circuit judges, for instance, since circuits pretty much all look alike to me.

The voting process is different now: it basically resembles a multiple choice test, so I’m pretty sure I failed it. You fill in a box with a number two pencil. I tried to copy my answers from the guy next to me, but an old lady from across the room wagged her finger at me. My fly was also down, so it might have been because of that. If they had made it a true/false ballot I think I would have done better.

You used to pull a few tabs and then pull on a lever, like a one-armed bandit, which always amused me because it made the whole thing seemed like a huge gamble, and you never knew if you won or lost until 2 or 3 years into the term. Maybe we should vote using a pair of dice.

My voting choices were limited by the behavior of the candidates. A politician named Justin Wagner had THREE old ladies call my home one day while my power was still out from the hurricane. They will probably tell you that they learned a few new words that day. He was the only candidate that I was not on the fence about.

I have to admit that I’m glad we don’t have a president named “Mitt.” “Barack” does nothing for me either, but Mitt sounds like it might be short for “Mittens,” leading me to believe that Romney might have two black feet like my neighbor’s cat. I don’t even want to think about a president named “Newt.” Presidents named after pets is just wrong for America.

I am happy that I will no longer have to hear politicians try to guess what is right for America. Several Republicans weighed in with their knowledge of women’s private parts. The consensus seemed to be that abortions can be condoned if a woman is raped by a ghost, or a cartoon character who is a registered Democrat. Women’s private parts should STAY private, and they should be password-protected.

Many states voted to allow the use of marijuana, a direct result of the powerful Doritos lobby. You can have all the Tea Party you want, but it’s going to be a snorefest unless somebody brings something to smoke up with. Most states agreed that it should be for medicinal purposes only, although these same states have accepted “rockin’ pneumonia & the boogie-woogie flu” and “Bieber fever” as legitimate ailments. Some municipalities are also considering medicinal crack.

We elected our first openly bisexual member of Congress. Doesn’t that seem like a little more than we need to know? What’s next? How long until we elect our first member of Congress that likes anal? And how open is “openly bisexual”- does it mean that virtually NO ONE is immune from receiving sexually harassing texts from this person? When will we finally elect an openly bipartisan member of Congress??

On the negative side, we are fast approaching the “Fiscal Cliff,” a Congress-invented taxpocalypse that is supposed to frighten itself into making a bunch of compromises that are just as bad as whatever is at the bottom of the cliff. What the press does not tell you, is that as soon as Congress settles that issue, looming on the horizon is the “Fiscal Up Shit’s Creek Without a Paddle,” and even worse, the “Fiscal Mongolian Clusterfuck.” Both involve draconian measures designed to take money out of one of your pockets and put it into another one that has a hole in it.

Incidentally, the ascendency of “superpacs” has resulted in a firestorm of controversy regarding the funding of political campaigns. “Restore our Future” raised over $131 million dollars to get you to vote for Romney. If you were going to vote for him anyway, you should give some of it back. “Winning Our Future” drummed up about $24 million for Gingrich. Gingrich did not win, so it’s doubtful that your future did either. “Texans for America’s Future” supported Obama to the tune of about $650,000. It seems to me that all that money for the future would make one nice present.

*Disclaimer: I am not one of those annoying political people that can’t talk to you about anything else, although I am clearly annoying for other reasons; this column is for entertainment purposes only

HURRICANE SANDY

The last thing anyone would want to do is try to make light of a dangerous and heartbreaking hurricane, so I will not attempt to do that. In the northeast, we haven’t seen anything even closely resembling a hurricane since, well, last year.

I thought about leaving before the storm got here, in order to protect my home and family, since an emergency situation is when I would be most likely to do something stupid that would harm them. My wife suggested a few places I could go and promised to write to me. In the end, we stayed put, but our electricity evacuated to higher ground.

This was not the time to “ride it out.” Those who did actually rode it right out of town and ended up in another state. The weather system was downgraded to a “superstorm,” but it was long and scary. And still, it could have been worse: what if it had become a “super-duper storm??”

After last year’s weather drama we finally went out and purchased a generator, and we have been generating since Monday. We had the electrician wire it into the circuit-breaker panel, and each time we turn something on, the generator groans like, “Dude, did you just turn on the oil burner? Was that ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY? Ever hear of a SWEATER?”

Power was so haphazard in our town, with every other street lit up, that it seemed like it had been wired the same way as a string of Christmas lights.

The utility crews came from far and wide. We had been without power for days, and every time my wife saw a truck of any kind she started to exhibit signs of hysteria, and wanted to stop the car and promise them things if they would restore our power. Nice things, things I have been asking for for years.

The lack of electricity cast a pall upon normal activities. Peoples’ smiles just weren’t as bright, mostly because they could not charge their electric toothbrushes.

I always like to look at the bright side of things, since that is where the power is back on. For instance, after the storm we didn’t have to rake the leaves. They were still on the trees, which are across our back lawn. All we have to do is cut up the branches and haul them away.

Many people have been displaced by the storm. I hope they don't give them those FEMA trailers like they did after Katrina- the ones that they found all this mold in the walls? When they got rid of those they should have thrown away the mold- you hardly need me to tell you that.
                                                                                                     
Around Thursday or so things started getting a little dicey trying to find gasoline. By Friday it was like a Mad Max movie. I went out to the bar to smuggle some alcohol out to mix with my gas. I felt like a gasoholic- I’d hide a little here and there that my wife didn't know about.

On top of that, I drove around wasting precious petrol because no one had bothered to place a sign at the beginning of a road that you couldn't get through. A lot of people just plowed right through the yellow tape and tried to drive under the downed utility poles; in some cases it was a tight fit. I drove past a barrier once or twice myself but only after somebody else did it first. I didn't stop to read the yellow tape- It’s possible that I drove through a crime scene- I might have even left some DNA.

We have learned a lot from this storm. We learned NEVER to name a storm something that might prove to be prophetic. Hurricane Sandy dumped three feet of sand in the middle of every town in the Northeast. Thank god they didn’t call it Hurricane Dick.

We learned to keep things in perspective: for those of you whose mortgages are the only things underwater, it could be a whole lot worse....

I am a big fan of the Jersey Shore (the shore, not the show), and it was sad to see an entire amusement pier vanquished into the ocean. Maybe it will become a water park. For miles around all you can see is devastation, except for a few places where there is only havoc. But the shore is still there, and when the summer rolls around, I will be there too.

Our electricity came back we embarked upon an orgy of power consumption. We turned the dishwasher and the clothes dryer on at the same time in a defiant message to the gods: “WE STILL HAVE NOT LEARNED OUR LESSON!”

I wanted to perk things up so I bought some flowers on the way home from work today. My wife’s face lit up, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her that they were for the tree guy.

And to those of you in neighboring unaffected states, our sediments are with you.

 
Incidentally, there have been more powerful storms in the Northeast throughout history. The “Long Island Express” of September in 1938 blew sustained winds of 120 miles per hour through Massachusetts, making a decent game of tennis virtually impossible. Hurricanes Carol and Edna struck within two weeks of each other in 1954. Hurricane Katrina of 2005 remains the most expensive in U.S. history, costing an estimated $75 billion. It seems to me that with a little haggling we could have gotten it for less, but it’s too late now.

MY NEW CAR

I sold my car about a year ago, figuring that I would just waltz right out and get a new one. After about 6 months I realized two things: 1.), that they don’t currently manufacture a car that I wanted to buy and 2.), that I can’t dance very well. 

The car had to be relatively inexpensive. I see a lot of people driving around in Escalades or Mercedes that don’t look like they could pay the mortgage on a refrigerator box. With the bass turned up so loud that some of the fillings in my teeth fall out when they roll by. I like to pull up next to them playing the same song only with the treble boosted to 10, so I can get a decent mix. 

It had to have some styling. Did you ever see a Scion? It looks like you’re driving around in a Kleenex box. And that little Chrysler thing that looks like a tiny little gangster car for little tiny gangsters. I can’t be in a pookie car; I’m a 6’2” guy, and I can’t be in any car that says “Mini” right in the name. A Smart Car? If you get hit by a pickup truck in that thing it’s going to smart. 

I like a sports car, since I play tennis. The sports car has never really helped on the court, but we also have a sports utility vehicle, and it’s very convenient for storing my sports utilities, which are a can of balls and a tennis racquet. 

It had to have a well-appointed cockpit. It seems to me that a cockpit should have an altimeter. If I notice that I am driving at 2,000 feet above sea level I’d like to know why. I’m not sure exactly when cars started having cockpits. It used to be called the front seat. I have four sisters and a brother and you had to get out to that car quick, possibly the night before, if you wanted to sit in that front seat. I picture the co-pilot of a plane busting ass to get out there early before all the passengers try to sit in the front.  

It has to get decent gas mileage. I wanted to decrease my carbon footprint, while increasing other parts of my carbon anatomy, if you know what I mean. I can’t wait around for more fossils to become fuel. And by the way, it irks the crap out of me that somebody a million years from now is going to be driving around in a Kleenex box with gas from MY FRIGGING FOSSILS. Shame on you. 

I already have a separate GPS so I didn’t need that, and I purposely did not order the “voice-activated command center.” I could picture the GPS telling the voice-activated command center to do things, just to yank my crank. The GPS has already sent me down a one-way street RIGHT IN FRONT of a police station- no lie. And when I looked at it it was like, “Dude that was an honest mistake but you have to admit it was funny.” The car salesman asked me whether I had a Bluetooth, which was weird because my dentist asked me the same question. 

The salesman was very low-pressure, I have to give him that. He didn’t even seem to think that I needed a new car at all. He gave me the manufacturer’s suggested retail price, and he suggested some other prices to add onto that. I had a couple of suggestions too, which I would rather not repeat here, but I made an offer and he disappeared to go check with his manager. It turns out he WAS the manager, so we struck the deal.

He handed me a goofy plastic thing instead of a key. It opens the locks, closes the locks and has an alarm signal to call for help. It’s huge, like having a trout in my pocket. So if you happen to ask me, “Is that a trout in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?” the answer is probably both. 

Warranties are much better than they used to be. My first car had a warranty for 3 years or 6 months, whichever came first. My second car was a Nissan Sentra which came with extensive "power train" protection, but I just knew they would never honor it. The car had about 120 horsepower soaking wet, and I pictured them dickering about if that could actually be considered a "power train." This car comes with one year of "roadside assistance," and I have already used it, since I needed some help with the leaf raking. 

I love driving the car; it handles well, I like the turbo-charger, once you get used to it. A couple things: I have all kinds of allergies, and I drive with my knees about 70 percent of the time so I can sneeze. This car has so much crap mounted on the steering wheel that when I am in the middle of an allergy attack, I change the radio station, set the cruise control and open the gas filler cap. 

So I get the car home and go to back it into the garage, and I can’t get the damned thing into reverse. I tried jamming it hard, I pushed down on the lever, I pulled, I yanked it hard to either side, I even considered that they had installed the knob upside down- nothing I did would make it go backwards. I was about to key my own car, but all I had was that stupid thing that looks like a trout, so I hit the alarm signal, and my wife came out of the house. “Did you press the release button to get it into reverse?” She asked. “Of COURSE I pressed the release button! I PRESSED and PRESSED the release button! Do you happen to know where the release button is?” I don’t know if you’ve ever been whacked on the head by a trout but it hurts. 



Incidentally, the car I ended up buying is a 2013 Dodge Dart. My family owned not only a Dodge Dart when I was in High School, but a Dodge Dart SWINGER! It was neon yellow, and it was a great make-out car because it had bench seats. You stick a girl on one side of the thing, and if you don't have enough time to bother with foreplay, you just make a hard right and she slides into your lap for a threesome with the gear-shift lever, and both of you end up fighting over her. It was a great car- the "slant-6" engine with a "three-on-the-tree" automatic. I liked the car more than the girl, but one summer I deflowered both the girl and my mom's garden while my parents were away for the weekend, and the Dart was involved in both.