DOWN WITH PANTS!

Today I left work a little early and ran home to grab the title to my broken down 1996 Ford Escort Wagon, a couple of boxes and some tools. It was time to break up with the poor old car and donate it to a worthy charity, the Boys and Girls Club of Ventura through their Kars 4 Kidz program.

I love the Boys and Girls Club and I'm glad that they will get some money off of something that was worth nothing to me or the dealership. But why can't the money from my car be earmarked for literacy training for non-profit marketing directors? Someone please explain to me why every program that benefits kids also has to screw up their spelling. The church down the street has banners up for their Kidz Kamp summer program. I sure hope that they are teaching kids that fossils were placed by God to test our faith and not teaching them grammar.

Anyway, like a victorious soldier stealing a dead enemy's boots, I pried my CD player out and rescued it from the Kidz. I also discovered four years worth of crazy shit in the back of the wagon. Why I brought my snow chains to Southern California, I'll never know. I also found a Tiki God stuffed in the spare tire well, which explains a lot.

When I finished gathering my belongings and tearing my blasphemous car art off the truck door, I got a little nostalgic. It was a love-hate relationship to be sure, but that car did have character. It started as my badass family wagon complete with skull license plate bolts. It carried us all the way from Seattle to San Francisco and back on a great vacation and to the Combine Demolition Derby on another fun weekend. It eventually pissed off California drivers by not being able to go over 70 MPH without nearly falling apart. Giving it up turned out to be kind of tough.

But then I jumped in the leather seats of my Jetta, opened up the sunroof, bumped some tunes on the kickass stock stereo and sped away, a single tear running down my cheek.