Sunday, September 25, 2011

Sick Bitch

I've always loved cars. 

Even after that fine day when it dawned on me that they are nothing but gold-digging whores: sexy and fun to ride, but at the end of the day, they will steal all your money.

It's unfortunate, then, that I'm a bit of a sentimental guy when it comes to the four-wheeled harlots. The prevailing logic is that one should dispose of cars after five years; the logic being that after half a decade, the broad's just going to bring you nothing but trouble. Considering the cost of maintaining cars, that's good advice right there.

Unfortunately, logic and I aren't exactly besties.

Hence, you can consider my garage a whorehouse lined with aging, disease-ridden, and cantankerous tramps. True, most of them have retained their exterior beauty, but, like a drag queen sans make-up, the true horrors lie underneath.

Like any pimp, I have a favorite in my redoubtable harem, and the apple of my eye has always been Mia. I acquired her more than a decade ago and, contrary to the sage "after-5-years-ditch-the-bitch" credo, I have kept her all these years like Gretchen Barretto. She's still sexy as all hell, despite minute, barely-discernible physical imperfections. She's still a "guaranteed head-turner", as the car ads would say. It is an indicator of my familiarity with her that I find myself pleasantly surprised any time people praise her good looks that I have long taken for granted. Nevertheless, like any D.O.M. happy to see his acquisitions being appraised so well, I simply smile and carry on.

However, like many beautiful things, Mia costs me a pretty penny just sitting there. And when she has one of her numerous tantrums, she gouges me for a hefty sum.

Several days ago I felt guilty about abandoning her to languish in the garage for the past six months, a consequence of my preference to being driven around in a service vehicle rather than battling traffic and circling the labyrinths of Makati on my own trying to secure a good non-towing parking slot.  With the majority of the year's workload over and, consequently, the driver and service car not at my beck and call, I thought I might reacquaint myself with my little abandonada and take her out for a little spin - just to relive the good times. 

Her revenge, of course, was swift: her engine would turn over, then promptly quit. Turn over, quit. Turn over, quit.

Just like a petulant, vengeful hussy to pull a coitus interruptus.

After a quick but thorough process of elimination, it became apparent that Mia was beyond any automotive wizardry I and my kinsmen possessed. And so for seven days, she sat out in the rain like a silvery Sadako, stone-cold and spitefully staring at me with her retractable eyes.

Today, the planets aligned enough that I was able to summon my towing service to forcibly drag Mia from her peevish sit-down strike in front of the house, and deliver her to the clinical ministrations of the casa.

Verdict? It wasn't the fuel line, nor the carburetors, nor a clogged-up exhaust.

Computer box. 

Just like the one she burned the last time.

More like Pandora's Box, I grumbled, out of which fly all kinds of nasty, expensive plagues.

Still...thankfully nothing's wrong with her heart - the purring thing known as the engine - save for a wonky timing belt. And the alternator also needed to be replaced. And of course, the aircon needs freon. And the windshield wipers are shot. And we need to get a new motor for the power windows. And I might want to have the canvas top looked at. And what did I say about Pandora's Box again?

But car ownership, like having mistresses, is a privilege - one that we pay for dearly. At any rate, these other issues are minor, all things considered. The bitch is alive, and she is running.

Of course, I have known Mia for a long, long time, and I know she is nowhere near finished. Like any mistress, she can be bribed with superficial trappings: a long-overdue repaint, a detailing session, perhaps, and better mags.

But her heart is beating and it is black. She will love me once again, but before that, she will first exact a long drawn-out revenge. Just like she did the last time. And the time before.

Then again, you know what they say: hell hath no fury like a convertible scorned.

The sick bitch.


  1. is that mia? me likey!

    let's take your mia and my zoom for a spin when she, uhm, gets better.

  2. how i envy mia.

    she gets all you adoring attention, while i am left languishing at the thoughts of long-promised thai essential oils.


    will you let me drive her???

  3. She DOES look like she needs queenly treatment. :-D

  4. @ john stan: Zoom's a Mazda, amirite? At least they come from the same Japanese clan.

    @ Ternie : That's why she's Cara mia.

    Also: yes,yes, I know we should've gone to dinner or had a few drinks. *Looks at Kane, then looks quickly away* Anyway, your essential oils are still here, in my bedroom, where I can keep a closer eye on them until they finally reach your loving hands.

    Which, at this rate, should be sometime before Jesus returns.

    @ Sonia : Now I know how Parliament must feel about the Civil List. Queens are so horribly expensive to maintain, and yet...yet...the adulation of the crowd as you pass by seems to make it all worth it.

    I think.

  5. But Rudeboy, which ones gives better value on our money? Mistresses or cars?

    And oh, you're buying me dinner the next time we meet. And drinks. The least you could do, right? =)


  6. well she is pretty. i miss the freedom of driving.

  7. @ Sean : Mia thanks you from the bottom of her cold, black heart.

    And yup. No backseat. Just a two-seater.

    No, I'm not romantic.

    @ Kane : Good question. I'd say cars, offhand. They can be resold or hacked up for parts. Mistresses just remain an expensive stain on one's history.

    Oh, dinner? And drinks!?!