If you read my only partially tongue-in-cheek post yesterday, you know that I'm still wrestling with transportation issues. By the end of yesterday's post, I had about decided to spend the money on repairing the old bastard and keeping it around. Hah! It must have been reading my blog...and it must not have liked the idea. It must have recoiled at the idea of being hard-driven by an angry geezer, a man who hurls insults on an aging car and threatens to thrust it into the jaws of an automotive shredder.
Today, as I was driving home from the office, an increasingly acrid odor of burning rubber filled my nostrils. I saw no smoke rising from my car, but I was caught behind some ancient old vehicles whose mufflers spewed nasty black soot, so, I assumed the odor was coming from my old bastard's nasty elders, themselves the progeny of a dangerous and fundamentally evil family of American cars.
My wife, upon entering the garage after I got home, immediately yelped at the odor. It was my car, it seems. I have yet to know what the problem is, but it's not a good sign. I have committed to being in Austin for a meeting tomorrow morning, so was planning on driving down, leaving the house at 5:00 am and returning just after lunch. The unknown cause of the burnt rubber odor has changed my mind. So, after spending $212 on an airline ticket, I am now committed to flying, then taking a $50 taxi ride or renting a car.
Wednesday, if I can, I will have the odor assessed if, that is, I can get the bastard to stay functional for tomorrow's trip to the airport and home again. I am not feeling much loyalty and love for the nameless bastard today. The shit!
1 comment:
Hello MfM,
I love that you call your car a bastard. Some of my old cars used to go by the name "bitch." Or MF. Or other, even more vulgar names.
Car trouble...aargh.
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