Kate and I share a car. It is a Rolls-Royce Phantom, and is green. On the hood it has a little chrome woman with wings. Kate thinks she is an angel. I think she looks like the Philadelphia Cream Cheese mascot. Who is, Kate points out, an angel. What we can both agree on is this: The leaping-cat hood ornament you get with a Jaguar is much better. But buying a Jaguar seemed vulgar and trailerparky so we resisted the temptation.

When we first got our car we talked a lot about the fabled history of Rolls-Royce. For a while it seemed every RR model had the word "silver" in its name. Silver Cloud. Silver Shadow. Silver Spur. Silver Spirit. Silver Ghost. Silver Seraph.

"Aha!" said Kate. "It is an angel."

"Is not," I said. "The name refers to the automobile at large and not merely its hood ornament."

"Shut up shut up shut up. You do realize we don't actually own a Rolls, right?"

"Huh?"

"Don't try to change the subject."

"OK."

"..."

"Seriously. I so don't understand what we're talking about right now."

"That's because you are a)dumb and b)not paying attention."

"Oh."

"..."

"Got any grapes?"

"F off."

Anyway. Rollses tend to be called Silver even when they are black or green or blue. Except for ours, which is green and is called "Phantom."

You probably did not know that Toronto used to have an indoor football team called the "Phantoms." You did not know this because indoor football is dumb and nobody went to the games. But even though your ignorance was blissful, mine was not, and the word "Phantom" troubled me. Our new car was smooth and elegant, but its name did not cut the relish.

So.

We gave it a name. One in keeping with the proud RR tradition of Silver this and Silver that.

Here is what we called it: The Silver Bum.

Oh, how we laughed about that. Haw!

...

This week our laughter turned to tears.

Yesterday the Silver Bum choked on its own vomit. Or maybe on its own stool. Digestion metaphors are appealing here, but in practice they are not as precise as one might wish. OK then. I will use real mechanical terms instead of metaphors.

Yesterday the Silver Bum's "catalytic" "converter" failed.

A "catalytic" "converter" takes unpleasant motor exhaust and turns it into pleasant motor exhaust. A "catalytic" "converter" protects the Air We Breathe. A "catalytic" "converter" is friend to you and me.

But the Silver Bum's "catalytic" "converter" failed yesterday. What did this mean in lay terms? It meant the Silver Bum was spewing uncorrected filth into Toronto's atmosphere. It meant children catching bronchitis and asthma and tuberculosis.

It meant (to speak metaphorically again) that the silk panties through which the Silver Bum typically passed its farts had grown encrusted and foul. It meant the Silver Bum had shat in its own drawers. And also in all our lungs.

Naturally I had to do something about it. So I did. I paid the RR mechanic to falsify the record of the Silver Bum's emissions test. He did not mind because he had gambling debts. He was grateful, really, because now he has until August before the goons kneecap him.

Today, Fate disapproved. I drove over a nail and got a flat tire.

But.

While I waited in the garage waiting room for a mechanic to plug the hole in the Silver Bum's tire, I put some coins in a vending machine to buy a soft drink. The vending machine gave me two soft drinks for the price of one. So clearly Fate had changed its mind. Fate approves of me once again.

What do you say to that? Nothing, because you are speechless! Boo-ya!

Do not cross me, internet public. You are dealing with powers beyond your estimation.

That is all.

Posted by Bret at May 13, 2003 11:43 PM