She Hates Me!
And I should have seen it coming, too. The lack of a detail, living in that cold Featherlite box for weeks on end, my innards are filthy and it’s been over a year since I’ve felt the relaxing rub of a clay bar. I knew something was up when “The person that used to worship the tires I rolled on” moved me from my comfortable prime spot next to the Snap-On tool condominium to a cold, damp corner next to old paint cans, cut up cardboard Summit boxes, and a pile of trash … and then casually threw someone else’s car cover on me when my perfectly good, flannel-lined CoverCraft coat fitted just for my stunning Inferno Orange Metallic body was laying a mere 20 yards away. She’s lazy, that one is.
And about that fall from grace, my exhaust tips are still in a twiddle trying to figure out why? I’ve been good, awesomely good, and without me she’d be just another wannabe autocrosser hoping for a bit of success and glory. I’ve done my part. I’ve never said “no” when she took me to a local car show, even though I’d much rather be slicing through slaloms. There’s been no pissing of bodily fluids on the shop floor nor have I caught fire. Hell, without me she wouldn’t have gotten her mug in Sports Illustrated and all those other mag-rag ads. There would have been none of those Solo and autocross championship wins. No beating up of a couple of Unsers. This “love gone wrong” stuff really sucks!
I knew something was up after our last big fling in Scottsdale for the Goodguys “Duel in the Desert” shindig. She beat on my butt like a rented mule even though I drove my little (OK, not so little) ass off, the results weren’t noteworthy for which, of course, she blamed ME!!! ME … like I had a choice in the matter! I’m not a skinny-minnie compared to those stupid Corvettes—whom I kinda hate by the way, as there was no chance of me ever fitting into those size 0 jean-like slaloms and kinks those doofus-brains thought was a fair course. Fair … my fat ass.
The only ones that thought it was fair were those short, svelte Tupperware-bodied things. But I digress; I’m just saying this because I’m really miffed about what came next. I mean, I’m not the one who mucked up the simple task of braking for the turn after the wiggle; the brakes were there if her right foot hadn’t had a brain fart. The truth hurts, woman.
I knew my fate was sealed on the way home; she didn’t even come and check my tie-downs … not even once! I was “Camaro non grata,” and during a stop when she and the man didn’t think I was listening I overheard them talking about liposuction. Not hers but MINE! Like I’m fat and she’s not? I’ve seen what she eats and it ain’t Lean Cuisine. Between the Oreo cookie crumbs and cheese slivers from those messy “2 for a Buck” Jack in the Box tacos she swears by I’ve got proof. Both live in my carpet ... which, by the way, could use a good vacuuming.
Once home, she denuded and cast me aside like a flat-spotted Rival. Stickers pulled, I lost my status and became “just another car” in the hierarchy of “Those Who Live in the Shop.” Another snippet I overheard from The Evil Ones involved replacing me entirely, which caused my neighbor, “The Camaro That Once Raced in the Trans-Am Series,” to grin with glee. He’d dreamt about this day for years, and for a few minutes it looked like it was going to come true. After the numbers were crunched, the money well was bone dry and our Trans-Am Hero remained glued, repping the lowly “Jack Stand” class. I, being the good Camaro that was just about perfect, thought I was home free and would continue my winning ways for 2016 and beyond. Yeah, right.
Not even two weeks later, I was half asleep when the shop door opens and in motors this godawful, most horrid car ever! A silver body that only a blind man could love with low, swoopy lines emitting guttural exhaust notes. This “Ugly ‘It’ thing” rolled to a stop, shuts itself off, and just oozed that “I’m right at home” attitude. I was so upset I wanted to pee out my dry sump fluids on the floor! Even the interior gave hideous a whole new meaning. Black and red? And this plasticized mess even had 17-inch wheels, which in today’s world is kinda like wearing white after Labor Day! “Ugly” got its own cover, a sway bar, and spiffy shocks, and I hear rumblings of some featherweight Forgelines and BFG Rival Ss. And I heard the girl even got a leather bomber jacket emblazoned with “Corvette Z06” on it. Like she needs yet another jacket. Often questioned, the man always complains when a new coat follows her home … and they often do! My days appear to be numbered and although she’s assured me I’ll always be her “forever car,” I’m still miffed over it all. This hurts a LOT. Being replaced by a hated Corvette that, to me, are all hype and reek of “all hat and no cattle” has me shuddering in my shock absorbers. “Ugly” doesn’t know it yet but we’re gonna talk as I’m not going down without a fight. Silver … or Black … or whatever, is NOT gonna be the new Inferno Orange! Just wait until we’re both at an autocross, and good luck straight-timing my kick ass orange self, you silver pile of ugly POO!
The only positive is it could have been worse … she could have bought a Ford!