Brian's Flingo on New Cars
Sonia opened the day with a rant against the new car smell, to which I say: "pooh." Because I know the alternative: the old car smell.
My car, Edna, is a solid 14 years old. If it were a dog, it'd be Shadow, from Homeward Bound. It'd be an ancient wise sage of a dog (I actually think dog years and car years are comparable. Both of mine may die this year).
Edna also smells. I used to think this was a product of my personal hygiene, but in recent days, I've thought back to when I first purchased it from my brother, 4 years ago.
It had the same smell. That old car smell. The same smell you find in your grandma's closet. The same smell you find in your kitty litter. The same smell you pick up as you walk through the Bronx. Sweat soaked into the seating, melted vinyl on the steering wheel, one too many times lighting that lighter in the glove compartment because you're just that bored waiting for a friend to come outside (cough, johnandmyles, cough).
Give me the fumes of the new car smell. Give me headaches, nausea, dizziness, sore throats, and cancer. Each breath of new car smell is a reminder that you are in no danger of spending eight hours behind a Mobile gas station fixing all of your belts with a repairman named Jorge and his wife and daughter who live in an RV in front of the Mobile gas station and don't have power tools but instead use sheer brute strength, thus leaving your belts squealing and whining like a baby in need of a diaper change.
Sonia opened the day with a rant against the new car smell, to which I say: "pooh." Because I know the alternative: the old car smell.
My car, Edna, is a solid 14 years old. If it were a dog, it'd be Shadow, from Homeward Bound. It'd be an ancient wise sage of a dog (I actually think dog years and car years are comparable. Both of mine may die this year).
Edna also smells. I used to think this was a product of my personal hygiene, but in recent days, I've thought back to when I first purchased it from my brother, 4 years ago.
It had the same smell. That old car smell. The same smell you find in your grandma's closet. The same smell you find in your kitty litter. The same smell you pick up as you walk through the Bronx. Sweat soaked into the seating, melted vinyl on the steering wheel, one too many times lighting that lighter in the glove compartment because you're just that bored waiting for a friend to come outside (cough, johnandmyles, cough).
Give me the fumes of the new car smell. Give me headaches, nausea, dizziness, sore throats, and cancer. Each breath of new car smell is a reminder that you are in no danger of spending eight hours behind a Mobile gas station fixing all of your belts with a repairman named Jorge and his wife and daughter who live in an RV in front of the Mobile gas station and don't have power tools but instead use sheer brute strength, thus leaving your belts squealing and whining like a baby in need of a diaper change.
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