"I'll have the face rub, yeah? But I don't know if I'll have the bum tube."

This is the plan for now: write one blog per day for the next two weeks. That way I'll be funny more consistently!

Let me tell you about my god damn brakes.

Did you know this about cars: cars are the worst fucking invention ever. They have this incredible feature where as soon as you buy it, a guy from the dealership comes to your house at night, leers into the bedroom window, and violently masturbates. Even when you know he's there! Especially when you know he's there. When he's finished, he walks over to your car and rubs his feces all over it. You may be asking yourself, "Is this hyperbole? Can I buy this line of reasoning?"

You know he is there.

I bring this up because my car is apparently rubbish. Like, shit-from-a-butt style. My brakes are essentially gone; the only thing saving you from becoming twisted metal when I'm on the road is tire-to-the-ground friction. Obviously, I don't want to kill anyone (in that manner), so I took the ol' car in for an estimate.

Three hours later, the guy tells me it's going to be $1,992. One thousand nine hundred ninety-two dollars and some cents.

Firstly, it's a little offensive to add cents to a bill that big. "Excuse me, sir," the rapist says, violently squirming inside of you, "But I just finished raping your family. Enjoy that knowledge." This is a good analogy: going to a car garage is a lot like being a rape victim; it's a question of powerlessness. There is no way that you are going to be able to identify all the problems with your car unless you are some Asperger's savant. In a garage, the guy could say, "Shit, man... Your galactronix matrix is leaking mallerious fluid. We can, uh... We can fix that."

What do you say? What could you possibly say to that?

When the guy--who otherwise seemed quite personable--showed me the estimate, the first words out of my mouth were, "You are a liar." I am not kidding around; I verbalized the fact that this guy was playing jokes on my wallet and my masculinity. He looked at me for what felt like a minute--a long, piercing gaze, designed to size up what kind of shit I was going to toss at him--and finally said this: "Well, this is just a suggestion."

Perhaps I'm ignorant on stuff like this, but does this kind of bullshit happen at, say, a barbershop? Does the barber take a look at your hair and say, "Hey, I can give you a little Justin Bieber on top, but I could also trim your pubes, you know." All this time, the belt remains buckled, pants snugly at your waist.

And what did I get for my troubles? More work. I am continuing to search for a body shop that can fix my car without breaking my asshole. I'll keep you posted.