Fine, I'll Do My Own Damn Oil Change

This one time, at band camp, a guy friend told me that I probably get all this free work done on my car when I go to the mechanic. "Ya know, you go in there with your blond hair and your big tits and they just roll out the red carpet," he grumbled. I quickly informed him that while I appreciated his charming physical description, said assumption was a huge pile of horseshit.

When I clickety-clack my heels and suit skirt into the auto shop (what do you want, I'm on my way to work) they all start rubbing their piggy little hands together, dreaming of retirement or maybe opening a Hooters restaurant on Route 1. See, as stated in the previous post, I don't know the difference between a fan belt and a carburetor, and I barely know the trunk from the hood. And it becomes painfully obvious as I struggle for words to describe my car's current ailment: "Um, it makes a weird noise, like a cat getting a root canal, and sometimes it just won't start. And a light comes on." They nod sagely, then ask me questions using one-syllable words. "Does it make a noise like a choo-choo?" And I still can't understand, so I giggle nervously and anxiously peer around for the nearest exit. Then I see one of the guys mouth something to the other guy which looks suspiciously like "trust fund" and then they usher me outside, assuring me that everything will be fine and they'll call me.

When they do call, they speak in hushed tones as if someone has died. "Ariel, your car is in really bad shape." Then they read off a laundry list (which I assume they keep tacked by the phone precisely for customers like me) of various broken parts and other naughty car behavior. After 10 minutes of this I ask Joe or Al or Arturo to cut to the chase and tell me how much. He tells me. Then I start crying. Not the sweet, gentle sobs of Harlequin Romance. I'm talking snot-filled, dry heaving hysteria. You'd think now the evil car guy would let up, maybe have a little compassion. Nah. He goes in for the kill, telling me that not only is my car polluting the environment, it is a DANGER to myself and others. Meaning I'm not only killing Bambi and Mother Earth, I'll most likely take out a few school kids in the crosswalk in my suicidal rampage of "driving to work."

After taking out several loans to fix the car that I don't even own yet, I've decided that this big-titted, blond bimbo is going to do what's best for school kids, the environment, and my bank account: I'm gonna hitchhike.