"My Car is a P.O.S." by Golden

My Car is a P.O.S. There, I said it. Pee. Ohh. Ess. There really is no better way to describe it. Sure, "silver 1989 Toyota Corolla wagon hand-me-down" describes it well enough I suppose, but still fails to capture it's essence - mainly it's P.O.S.ness. I mean, I've gotten used to the quirky little things it does to annoy me every day, like, say, when it resets my radio stations every time I open my door, or when it doesn't shut the engine off when I remove the key. But this time it really crossed the line.

The other day, a few new friends at work asked for a ride home, and wanting to cement my status as a true friend, I gladly obliged. As we approached my car, in an effort to humorously deflect their most certain inner thoughts (that indeed my car is a P.O.S), I laughed, "Well if you're not embarrassed to ride in my car, I'd be happy to give you a ride home." They laughed along, "Naw, man. It's cool. Don't worry about it." See, I no longer get embarrassed when it breaks down on me in traffic. I was only concerned about my friends.

So we start the journey home, and soon enough, we hit the predictably unpredictable D.C. traffic, which was caused by either a) bus loads of fat Midwestern tourists, b) a Presidential motorcade even though the President is out of town, or c) a minute fender-bender caused by two idiots on their cell phones. So, after about twenty minutes at the same light, I noticed the car's thermometer inching upwards. Not a big deal. I say, "Sorry, guys. I hope you don't mind, but the engine is getting warm. I have to turn on the heater." Response: "No problem, man. It's cool." In fact, it wasn't. It was eighty degrees outside. I check the rear view mirror and see sweat beading on their foreheads.

After another five minutes in the same spot, the engine starts to boil. Loudly. "Yeah, it pretty much does this everyday. No worries." I turn up the radio. For the first few minutes, my friends believed that the faint steam rising from the hood was actually just the exhaust of the SUV directly ahead. But now, the steam was billowing out from under the hood like a nuclear reactor. Our neighbors stuck beside us begin staring and pointing. "Yes, thank you concerned citizen, I'm aware that my car is smoking." My friends are sweating profusely now, not just from the heat, but also from worry. I can see we are getting nowhere, and they are just getting embarrassed, so I turn to my friends and say, "Yeah, you know what, you might just want to take the metro. I can limp this thing home." "You sure?" "Yeah, this is routine for me. No worries." A wave of relief washes over their faces, they jump out of the car like it was on fire. I pretend not to see their sweaty butts. They grab their bags and head north two blocks to the metro. I failed to provide them with the most basic service of friendship - a ride home. I, of course, get the car home just fine.

Stupid P.O.S car. I can't wait until I get in a non-lethal, preferably low-impact rear collision. Because I'd get a thousand buckaroos, maybe more if I score a minor, preferably temporary neck strain. And what would the car get? Stripped for parts and compacted, that's what it would get, and nothing would make me happier.