Smart (Car) My Ass

It was in the lot all day, and the lady said, “I sent fifteen thousand off to France, waited fourteen months, and just got it, but it only gets 37mpg because they (the Fed) won’t let-in the model with the bio-diesel engine that, you know, burns garbage,” an' thank God she didn't notice me tryin' to peek under it to see if it had mower blades.

A Kentucky boy o’ my girth and countenance would have to put on and wear that little mammyjammer like a metal coat, and, if there was a poor soul in there with me, it would probably be an up close and personal door-bulging experience worthy of the jaws of life.

That thing wouldn’t hold my lunch food from Planet Hollywood’s Vegas buffet, and if you‘re a student, you best be orderin’ a luggage rack for your book bag.

I finally realized that its very existence just pissed me off cuz the Ford Focus gets nearly that mileage and has enough gumption to keep from rollin’ like a tennis balll if hit by a car or flyin’ like a tee shot if creamed by a truck.

Later and all alone, I stood next to it and felt the urge to lay into it and put it over on its side, jam a flagstaff into its upturned door with stars ‘n stripes a-flutter, and pose for an Iwo Jima-like photo to send to the UAW in Dearborn.

Lady, I bet your ass wouldn’t fly in it if that same company made a plane.