My darling SUV, Fiona, is a young lass. I noted, with a heavy sigh, she is growing up right before my eyes, having finally reached the magical 3,000 mile mark on the odometer. It was time for her ritual deflowering. Off to the Jiffy Lube we rode. I spoke to her, trying to prepare her for what would come next to allay her anxiety. I pulled into the line as one of the 15 energetic young men raced to my side, opened the door and whisked me into the office. Before I was even inside, three jaunty testosterone-soaked males covered her seat, the steering wheel, and popped her hood, “Be gentle with her,” I called out to them over my shoulder as I went to wait. Slowly, one of the men pulled her into the bay, as eight sets of hands ran over her tires, her valves, her dipstick, her wiper fluid well, and other parts heretofore untouched. Pacing nervously with my courtesy cup of coffee in hand, I was called by one of the young men to the hallway. We both looked down in horror as he said, “I don’t know what to say, Bob got a little excited and tore her oil filter during the inspection. We’ll replace it for free.” Oh, no, my poor, poor Fiona, how can they replace her innocence? Then he added, “It should only take 5 or 10 more minutes.” It ended up taking only 3—that’s a young man for ya’.
Published on: Dec 17, 2006
No comments:
Post a Comment