You gotta love shite boxes. Those cars that you don’t give a shite about crashing or scratching. I drive a 1998 Jeep Cherokee right now. This jeep is 5.9 Liters, so you can imagine what it’s doing to gas money—that’s right, it’s burning a fucking hole through my pocket. The big bad motherfucker got passed on to me from my rents, so don’t start yelling at me thinking why the hell would I buy such a monstrosity of a vehicle. This car has more problems with it than the global economy. Its transmition is jerky, it has the worst brakes in automotive history, it’s backlights don’t work… but these are all little problems. One of its biggest problems would be that the engine has a hole where the coolant flows to, so it leaks over a litre of coolant out everyday. I have to keep a big orange juice carton full of water at all times with me just to pour into the coolant tank everytime it start overheating, which is about twice a day. Highways are the worst though. The piece of shite doesn’t push more than 120km/hour, and if I insist on it then the entire fucker starts rattling as if it’s going to fall apart right there and then. But in all honestly, I love that shite box.
Back in the Day
Last year I drove around in a 1997 Dodge Avenger. I got so much pussy in that car it was unbelievable. The automobile looked flawless… well, until you looked under the hood. It was a two-door beast of a sports car that looked mean. It was my silver bullet. Then when the winter rolled in, I switched to winter tires. Winter tires or no winter tires, it doesn’t help a sports car against the Canadian winters. Then after crashing into more than one snowbank and breaking almost everything in the car from its door handle which I had to order in from E-Bay, to burning a hole in its fabricated roof with a cigar, to finally destroying the hood by crashing into a tree after flying over a huge snowbank. If that tree wasn’t there I’d most likely put a hole in a random man’s livingroom wall at 4 in the morning while driving home from a mates pad. Good thing no one woke up and I had two other mates not driving too far ahead of me, who stopped and helped me out by pushing the silver bullet out of the hill of snow.
Then a week later I found someone that would actually give me a clean thousand dollars for that shite box. He went for a test drive and loved it. He thought he was getting a great deal for just 1K. All I needed to do to get this transaction complete is just park the car, get out, and sign a few things and collect my monies. Well the problem took place when I went to park the car. It obviously skidded on the ice and I obviously ended up under a parked four-ton van’s bumper. I remember hitting my head. Then after wiping the blood off my forehead, I got the fuck outta there. Ended up getting a hundred and forty bucks for it from the tow-truck guy. Oh and by the way, since I kept leaving the shite box in front of my building, it kept accumulating parking tickets. Fuck it though, I filed all of them to court. Buggin if I have to pay for ’em.
What These Experiences Taught Me?
What I learnt from all of this is that I love owning a shite box just because I can scratch, scrape, crash, or bash it and I won’t feel the least bit pissed. Everyone always asks me why I don’t get myself a Benz or a Beamer, and I just tell them there’s no point. I’d hate to be worrying for my car every second of every given day. Now I can park anywhere, stop anywhere, drive over sidewalks without any stress of wrecking the vehicle, but if I was to drive a CL then I’d be scared parking next to an Oldsmobile because the old geezer driving it might scratch the side of my car when opening his door. I’ll only buy a CL or a Carerra when I’m so rich that wrecking a car like that wouldn’t mean shite to me. So keep driving them shite boxes and stop complaining, they’re great even though its heating system doesn’t funciton properly and the coolant is constantly leaking.