Last night, I was watching an episode of How I Met Your Mother, and the narrator couldn’t remember the name of a woman he dated, so he proceeded to call her “Blah Blah.” Because I never took the time to name my car — despite naming everything else precious to me, such as Isaac the iPhone — we’ll call my car Blah Blah for this post.
Blah Blah and I took a ride today during lunch. Poor Blah Blah. As we traveled down Stonewall to catch South Boulevard, I could hear Blah Blah groaning in pain. As construction takes over to build up this fair city, Blah Blah must suffer the consequences of bad roads, pot holes and debris. Last time we went home to visit my parents, my dad pulled two nails and a screw out of her tires when he rotated them. I guess it doesn’t help that the CL offices are located near some very rough railroad tracks.
For Blah Blah and all the other cars who have no one to speak for them, someone, please, have mercy upon our poor cars’ feet. Hurry up and clean up these roads.
This article appears in Jan 30 – Feb 5, 2008.
