Cars

I want a James Bond car. A silver, missile-firing, ejection-seat equipped Aston Martin James Bond car. One where I can shoot oil slicks out the back and have a bullet-proof shield (hey, I’ve already had one car blown up from a stray bullet.).  I don’t even care if it is iPod-capatible.  I want to be able to blow up cars who drive in the emergency lane past stopped traffic.  BOOM.  Que James Bond theme. Nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah Ba da da ba da dum dum dum.  If it has lasers and can turn into a submarine, well that’s a bonus.

Cars used to be fun to me. I had a Pontiac when I was 16 (I kid you not). It had a 400 cubic inch big-block V-8 that made the car go 0-60 in a mouse’s fart.  Problem was, it had manual drum brakes (if you don’t know what that is, Fred Flintstone’s feet can stop a car faster than manual drum brakes.).  I could go from A to B fast but would end up in C.  But sometime in the past 30 ears, I died and became practical.  Now I drive a CUV. It’s like a baby SUV (the C stands for cute, I think.) The sad thing is, I love the darn thing. It’s my Swiss Army knife.  I can haul kids, books, equipment, my bike, my dog and safely travel the backroads of Mississippi.  And it has heated seats (for my old back) and an iPod jack.  I know. Pathetic.  I went from fun to practical.  And don’t even ask me about my other car. It rhymes with A VAN.  Yup. Pathetic.  But it hauls kids and their friends and travels long distances on one tank…aw, I’ll shut up now.

Like I said, I’ve died and become practical.

The bottom line: I’m truly a red-blooded American.  I love me some cars.  I’ve owned two Pontiac Firebirds, an Isuzu Trooper, a Toyota Corolla (when I was in purgatory) and a Nissan Maxima. Now I have a Honda put-put.  I went from fun to practical.  Any moment now, I will head back to fun again. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to pick out my mid-life crisis car.  I’d look good in a Camaro convertible.  Does it come in a wagon for the kids?