Tears of a Clown

I'm driving a rental Ford Focus. It is tiny, has cloth seats that grab my ass like naughty velcro and has manual controls.

Upon entering the vehicle with a mighty PLOP - I can almost hear the Big Top Music play.  I shut the door quickly so that other clowns will not file in on top of me.

I hate it. I miss my car with its fun gadgets and gizmos and whirlygigs and doomaflatchies!

Warning : I am now gonna sound like the biggest, whiniest, self-important babyhead you will have ever met - so - beware and stuff!

I miss my pop-up head unit and dvd player to which ogling Tom Welling's firm dimpled backside has become standard lunchtime procedure. I miss my PS2 that is nestled into my glove compartment waiting in vain for me to come and push multi-colored buttons. I miss my leather seats and their un-ideally located heated button. I tear up just thinking of my moonroof not being used on the first warm and inviting day of the year. And, I miss my 12 disk changer filled to the brim with Michael Buble, SheDaisy, Mandy Barnette, Gretchen Wilson, and Buffy : the Musical.

They told me: "Darlin', we may have your car done by Friday evening."

"Okay." I said not thinking of the ramifications.

And now, upon looking out and seeing the oozing whitehead of a clown car they gave me (it smells like stale smoke and has a sticky steering wheel to boot NOT to mention the fact that when you barely touch the brakes they seize up and I'm thrown against the seat belt like a barely restrained monkey) I realize something:

I WANT MY CAR BACK.

Otherwise, I may have to beat up some mechanic with my clown horn!