The title says it all. That stupid fucking piece of German engineering can't figure out how to drive itself home after my ass gets all drunk and happy. Jesus. I have to either bum a ride, or stumble the 6 blocks it takes to get to my house. Fucking car, I swear.
But here's the thing: I live in such a small town, that it'd almost fit in a WalMart parking lot. And also because I live in a small town, every time I leave my car in front of the tavern, everyone knows it. I mean, I live in the middle of Wyoming, where everyone drives a one ton pick up and so my VDub sticks out like a sore thumb, with its fancy fucking wheels and low profile tires (which I can't fucking STAND, but that is another story, for another day). EVERYONE knows my car, and I inevitably hear about said car, and how it must've gotten drunk last night. Fucking super. Super and awesome. But to those people, I tell them this:
Listen, assholes, I was thinking about it a few months ago and have decided that this town is so fucking small, it fits in a Super WalMart parking lot. Or, at the very least, it fits in the parking lot, and maybe spills over into a goddam KMart right across the street. Do you really think it's a wise choice to get a fucking DUI driving from one end of the parking lot to the other, or, say, driving from WalMart to some store across the road? Do you actually think I'd rather drive home instead of listening to you dicks giving me shit about it? Well, you can give me shit all day long, but I'll be happy as a fucking clam that I ain't gettin' tossed in the slammer 77 miles away, sitting in a fucking drunk tank waiting to sober up because I was too stupid to get behind the wheel of my car after having three too many fucking Dirty Hippies (which is a shot, by the way, the Dirty Hippies-- it's not like my vagina suddenly opened itself up for business for unkempt, stinky dreadies, with their shitty drumming skills).
So anyway. YES, my car got fucking drunk. But my ass got home, not arrested.
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