An Open Letter to My Geo Prizm

June 18, 2008 by

Dear Greenish Thing,
I have decided that I would like to drive you until you can accelerate poorly no more (and that doesn’t mean you will somehow accelerate better), until you have lost your three remaining hubcaps, until your doorhandles are completely broken instead of partially, until your propensity to electrically shock me burns my fingers to smoking black nubs, until your poor sealing causes the windows to fog up too quickly for me to wipe it clear before flipping over curb, over the bridge and onto the purplish sea creature thing being artsy in the river, or until something worse happens.
It’s been a good few years at your helm and hopefully it can be a good few more. Driving at great speeds on windy highways I was sure you would be blown into another lane several miles away, but you stayed grounded. When your brakes and/or struts were in pain you allowed me to ignore it safely before finally dropping you off at a mechanic…and then dropping hundreds of dollars on your repair. We have gone all over Long Island, to New Hampshire, Connecticut, Massachusets, upstate New York, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey and you haven’t once been car-jacked. Why? Because you are a Geo Prizm.
You were listed as blue when you were registered in NY. Why? Because some people are stupid. You cost very little to register in NH. Why? Because you are really old. You are relatively cheap gas-wise. Why? Because you get better than average mileage and your gas tank is minute. For people to sit shotgun in you I demand that they call “shartgun.” Why? Because there is a gene running rampant in my family that makes us all slightly to moderately deranged.
But I still choose to drive you, because you are dependable and I don’t really know any other car all that well. If I happened to have a nice Audi R8 I would still keep you around, for the R8 would probably get stolen. You also would be cheaper to maintain. I don’t know how I got that R8. Maybe I’ll just get a model of it.
Anyway, so on the day that I decide to write a letter to you about my decision to drive you to the end, why is it that you allow me to lock all of my keys in you? In 100 degree weather. Cloudless. And forget my wallet with Driver’s License and other forms of ID at home. Why do you allow me to put my keys down on the front passenger seat and wind up the windows leaving a crack so that you don’t overheat inside since your AC is out-dated and not working and then think “That window isn’t wound up enough, someone could stick their arm through the top.” Why did you not stop me from winding that window up so that when I put my arm through the top I am mere inches from the unlocking it. Why do you allow me to develop bruises on my lower forearms and make my upper forearms and wrists look like pathetically failed suicide attempts by a complete moron. Why do you allow me to sweat profusely as I become late for work. Why do you let me have the insight to use my windshield wiper as an extension of my arm and then lament “If only it had a hook with which to pull the window crank” and then never think “The bank that I was just at should have a coat room with coat hangers that have HOOKS.” Why do you allow me to make repeated sweaty trips to the bank to ask for numbers for the police who don’t do anything unless there is a child locked in the car, but will give you the number to a locksmith in case you feel like spending some money before a nice teller finally offers the use of a coat hanger. Why do you torment me so?
Nevertheless I will drive you till you go kaput…or until I smash your smug little face in with a sledgehammer.


Thaddeus Ballpheasant

P.S. – Argh.


April 17, 2008 by

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