Purchased for $2000 from my beneficent and meticulous brother, Gerald, this sculpture of torpid lividity* is a 1999 Grand Am, 129,000 miles young.** I only wish you could fondle it the way I can fondle it every day.

    Theoretically there could be an extra breast explosively visited upon me should I strike another object as I once struck an object not so very long ago. But that was in a car which was not only a different color, but provided almost 100% less boob-esque. I should stop typing, as it is strictly prohibited by my automobile insurance riders.

    First, I must tell you about the spreadsheet. Entrusted to me at the time at which I took custody of the rolling Shiva, each row indicates a service or product visited upon her in times past, and the columns details date, type of service or purchase, location at which said purchase or service was proffered, wether or not there was a warranty and when such an thing might expire and the odometer reading at the time of service. From this record I’m able to determine two things:

1. My brother is doing nothing to disprove the stereotypical image of the engineer
2. My mobile Aphrodite is well maintained and a fitting addition to my family, albeit one which can neither consume health insurance premiums nor eventually participate in the selection of my retirement home (should the occasion arise).

* I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about.
** About 207,000km