I Hate Me, part 200,286
We have a second car, it’s a 1989 Honda Civic Hatchback. It’s referred to in some circles as “the clown car”. It’s a tiny car that’s low to the ground, it seems like the kind of car that when one big guy got out of it (me) he should be followed by another ten or so large guys with the theme song from The Benny Hill Show playing, much like a clown car at the circus. The car doesn’t get driven a lot and it’s usually parked under a tree. Now I don’t know what kind of birds are living in the tree or what they were eating but whatever it was a recent spate of bird shit on my car has ruined two foods I used to like. I went out to the car a few days ago and the hood looked like it was covered in Junior Mints, which I thought was some divine sign that I’m doing good.
“Well, how do you know there’s a God?”
“Yesterday, He covered my car in Junior Mints.”
“You know, they say God works in mysterious ways.”
“Mysterious, or retarded ways?”
“No Junior Mints for blasphemers.”
Turns out it wasn’t Junior Mints but some of that freakish bird shit I mentioned earlier. Instead of cleaning off the car I waited for rain to do the job. It didn’t, and this morning the Junior Mint/bird shit had morphed into something that looked like Kellog’s Cinnabon Cereal, ugh. To paraphrase Travis Bickle, “some day a real rain will come and wash this bird shit off my car.”