This Is Cory

My current car–and this is an example of my acute automotive knowledge–makes “funny noises” when you turn it on. And by “funny noise” I mean the shrill voice of a banshee emanating from under the hood whenever I turn the key. Not only that, but it is possessed by the Devil. Perhaps not the Devil himself as he can get very busy, but maybe by one of his underlings.

I know this because at various intervals throughout each day the cassette player will launch into some kind of process that sounds as if Satan’s Little Helper is in there constructing his custom home. He doesn’t even have a permit. Not only that, but the volume knob occasionally decides that clockwise means softer, and counter-clockwise means LOUD AS POSSIBLE., which–as you may know–is in direct violation of the Law of Volume Control.

The car runs fine, but the noises are getting annoying to deal with everyday, and it’s not exactly what we’d like to be driving, and we are assuming that trading the car in would be easier or less frightening than holding an exorcism.

That means we may be looking for a different car. The last time we bought a car we wound up at a man’s home here in Modesto to take a look at his Honda. When we arrived he was wearing a shirt with the “Burning Man” logo. Burning Man is an annual event exploring vital aspects of Humanity such as Community, Self-Expression, and Naked Wrestling. This takes place in Nevada, if you hadn’t already guessed. Burning Man derives its name from their Saturday Night tradition of–this is true–burning a wooden effigy.

Anyway, I made mention of the shirt and asked him if he had attended the event. “Yes,” he said. “I’m The Titty Man.”

Yes, that’s right: He was The Titty Man. He said this with the same tone you might use to comment on the weather, as if I should be familiar with him; as if I should have said, “Oh Yes! Of Course! The Titty Man!” When we got home I did a little research into Burning Man, and you do NOT want me to explain to you what is involved in being The Titty Man. After leaving his home, I couldn’t even recall his real name, and it was very uncomfortable to have to put his number into my cell phone under “Titty Man”.

We did like his car. We chose not to buy it, but opted instead to purchase from a licensed individual reseller who happened to be a Vietnamese refugee by the traditional Vietnamese name of “Tom”. We still own this car. The one that is possessed.

Buying something is typically a simple process. Let’s say, for example, you find a pair of shoes you like. You try them on; walk around in them; push down on the front to see how much space there is in case your foot grows two inches longer in the next year; stare at them in the mirror while they are on your feet; and then take them to the register to find that they cost three hundred dollars. You spit on the counter in disgust, and then storm out the door. Simple.

No so with cars. Buying a car means always having to deal with someone. While I consider myself a “people person” I don’t like being in a situation where someone is trying to sell me something. I become extremely skeptical, and how do you trust someone who voluntarily refers to himself as The Titty Man?

I also have to pretend that I know what I’m talking about. This is part of the Male Job Description, specifically when it comes to vehicles. When my wife and I went to check out The Titty Man’s Honda I walked forcefully around it and checked underneath the hood in order to nod approvingly at the hoses and tubes. The result of my inspection was, if I remember correctly, that it looked “like a cool car.” This is typically the point when I call my father, who will give me a list of actual questions to ask about actual car parts.

So, as I mentioned before, we bought a car fully loaded with a CD Player, a Sun Roof, and an Irish Spirit of Impending Death. And since I can’t bring myself to either fix our car, or venture into the outside world to find a new one, I will continue to wake the neighbors every morning with the piercing noises that echo from under my hood, and to shake my fist in anger at Satan’s underling inside my cassette player. I will do this until my car disintegrates back into the dust of th earth, and we will have no choice but to call up The Titty Man.

Rollerblades: Also an option.