To prove that I don’t just write about politics anymore, here’s a little story about my car. I love my car, but I don’t LOVE my car. It’s an ’89 silver Volvo wagon and it’s currently covered in leaves and bird shit. It’s not like I do this on purpose. The only safe parking on our street (by safe, I mean the only spot where someone won’t plow into it in the middle of the night in their shitmobile and limp their drunk ass away) is in the driveway under a bunch of berry trees. Birds love berries. Berries are ripe and falling. Do the math.
A lot of what looks like bird crap on my car is actually berry stains (berries do that when they’re overripe and drop from a great height), but I’m not going to argue about the little stuff. I used to worry about it a lot, but when you only get three days of clean out of a car wash, you get used to driving around in the only unclean car on the road. And what’s up with the perfectly polished cars anyway? I imagine everyone in town out in the middle of the night lovingly stroking their brand new SUV’s with shammies.

I do feel a little bad that my car is the smelly kid in the parking lot that none of the other cars want to sit next to, but they’re not paying me enough to dress myself, much less wash my fucking car every day.

Anyway, I digress. The real story here is that after two weeks of encrustation, a faux biker gang (you know, wannabes with acid-washed jeans and too-new bikes) pulls up next to me and the GF at a light. Lead biker takes the time to point out, “Lady, birds done shit all over your car.” So I’m wondering, what’s the appropriate response to this? Apparently it wasn’t, “Fuck you.” I’m assuming now that it was something like, [insert giggle] “We’ll just whip out our bikinis and scrub this bad boy down (and make out) while you boys watch. ‘Kay?”

I’m never washing the car again.