Un-datable Cars

My work husband, Feckless Piker, and I had to attend a workshop this week on proper usage of the semicolon.  We drove in Piker's car that smelled like a colon. The unmistakable  miasma of rotting garbage assaulted my olfactory senses the minute I sat myself, like Miss Muffett on a Tuffet, on top of days old newspapers and trash littering the passenger seat.

"Dude your car has bad BO." 
"Oh, it's the garbage bag in the trunk."
"WTF?  Next time we're taking my car, are you sure it's not a severed head or the corpse of your Granny back there?"

Let me remind you we live in Florida.  In September the ambient air temp percolates to an afternoon high of 95 degrees.  The Piker has been tooling around town with a black plastic bag of rotting Kentucky Fried Chicken bones, banana peels, dirty Q tips, and who knows what else, fermenting in his trunk for a week.

"Dude you have cockroaches in this car."
"No I don't, you are SUCH a drama queen.  Where's the cockroach?"
"I can hear them scampering.  And why is there flypaper hanging from the rearview mirror, and 2 mouse traps in the back?"
 

To add insult to injury, a small flotilla of sea gulls followed, circling the motorized biohazard, pecking at the windows (requiring they remain rolled up), as if this vehicle was a garbage scowl on wheels.

We walked into the workshop, much to the consternation of fellow attendees, wreaking of eau d'garbage.

It's a step up from Piker's previous vehicle which necessitated I crawl in the passenger window to sit up front, or sit in the back ala Ms. Daisy, eking out a space amidst dirty underwear, and petrie dishes of Chik-Fil-A and Checkers detritus (and probably used condoms).  To add to the horror of riding in the old scowl, it had no air conditioning.  Battery powered oscillating fans from the Dollar Store provided relief during the warmer months of the year. Valets refused to park that car as they were afraid of contracting flesh eating bacteria.

Piker, your car was brand new and pristine a few short months ago.  It has slid into vehicular squalor with  alarming alacrity.  You ain't never gonna get laid,* or be a raconteur/bon vivant/ladies man if you insist on driving Grey Gardens on wheels.

Stay tuned for Part II of "Undatable/un-doable cars."

*Possible exception.  If you're lucky, a syphallictic, heavily tattoed, mind the gap, muffin-topped, carney girl taking tickets at "Cracker Country" at the Florida State Fair.