And then what happened next—
Scrapped on May 18, 2025.
“Why are there so many lanes closed this morning?” I growled as my Trabant came to a stop again behind an interminably long line of equally frustrated and annoyed cars. My coffee had been sour this morning, my newspaper stolen (back by my neighbor), and now this. The only silver lining was that my faithful Trabi had come to a stop because I actually stepped on the brake, not because the engine fell out again.
Always the astute surmiser, I put my brain to work surmising up possible reasons all these lanes were closed.
Someone threw caltrops all over the road, and we don’t want to give anyone any ideas?
Environmentalists have glued themselves to the road again and if we just ignore them, perhaps they’ll go away?
Meth heads realized even the pavement is worth something at the scrap yard and stole it all?
Construction workers are now too lazy to even make up a reason?
Gnomes. Always gnomes.
If the cause of it was not one of these reasons, I vowed to eat my asshat. Then traffic started moving again and my Trabi moved with it. (Again, because I actually stepped on the gas, not because the brakes fell off again.) Then she came to a stop again because her drive shaft fell out.
Some time later, after much duct-taping, baling-twining, cursing and swearing, and finally shoehorning (with a shoehorn stolen from a passing pangolin), all the errant and wayward parts of my Trabant were firmly reattached. In most cases, they were reattached where they belonged—and facing in the right direction. I pushed in the choke, stepped on the throttle, pulled the engine cord, prayed to the dread Owl Gods, and… nothing. More cursing and swearing ensued. I pulled the choke, let up on the throttle, pushed in the cord, prayed to the even dreadier god Ka‘ū, and… something. Then I realized the “something” was just another pair of passing pangolins.
There are an awful lot of pangolins out and about today, I thought to myself. I considered surmisin’ up a list of possible reasons for this too, but surmised my time would be better spent getting my spark plug with a roof actually sparking again.
After much more cursing, choking, throttling, strangling, and chain-pulling, she finally started. Then she tried to choke and throttle me, because I had somehow confused my big little redheaded huzzey-muffet with my little green East German jalopy.
What happened next put me in mind of that madcap video of Bailey Jay going on a wild dick chase in Bungholio, Michigan. That caper ended in a gorgothine disaster that people still talk about today, but it still didn’t compare to what happened next—
Then, random errant thoughts intruded: Was Charles Messier messier than Charles Manson? What about Charles Babbage and his cabbage-babbling machine? Deeper down this rabbit hole, O.J. Simpson may’ve been dead, but Jimmy Hoffa had been discovered last week to be quite alive—buried under some of the pavement yet unpurloined by meth heads! And then what happened next—
“Keep your door closed and your enemies closer,” my dishwasher pangolin reminded me shortly before I stole that shoehorn from his cousin. (My pangolin had returned from Athabasca last week.) All my doors were closed—but what could I do about my faraway enemies without being accused of kidnapping again? And then what happened next—
“Prepositions are not words to end sentences with,” I intoned, at a loss for adding more useful words to this word salad. My dishwasher pangolin nodded sagely and withdrew. I closed the appliance’s door and locked it. (I had used a semicolon there, but I already outdid my pretentiosity quota for this week.) Becasue tried to choke me again for slamming the dishwasher shut so unexpectedly. And then what happened next—
I checked on my clothes washer and dryer to see if they had become infested with backtalking wildlife too. But I found none—not even a butterfly that could whisper sweet nothings in my cauliflower ears. I breathed a sigh of relief. Then I found my clothes dirtier and wetter were full of corn. The corn talked back! I breathed that sigh of relief back in, panicked, and ran off gibbering. And then what happened next—
“Pussy miles go up if you’re talented,” my bed cushions blared. And then what happened next—
My asshat was what’s for dinner. Becasue was dirtier and wetter now too. And then what happened next—
And then what happened next—