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Tales From The Westside
Thoughts of your excruciating beauty have been plaguing me all morning. The way the sunlight catches your golden curls and races across the touchdown line for a home run. The way you giggle uncontrollably until milk or whatever you happen to be drinking spurts out your nose like a pearly fountain. The way your eyes glisten in the dark like some reptilian beast's. My love for you envelopes me like a thick black cloud of smog, oily and sticky with the residue of your touch.
I was dreadfully confused by your last letter. What were you trying to tell me?
Obsessively in love with you,
Cole
It is with the most wonderful lightness of heart that I approach the crafting of this sweet note to you!
My darling, it is so wonderful of you to admit that you misunderstood my earlier communiqué. I am both touched by and in awe of your humility and strength of character. I have absolutely no doubt that these will serve you well as you venture forth alone, blessed by the grace of my good wishes.
I take such exquisite delight in freeing you, my sweetheart! The spring from which your future bubbles forth merrily laughs with silver promises of the hundred wonderful destinies from which you may choose. I envy you, and am wracked with heartbreaking sadness that I will not be at your side!
Go forth, my love!
Peace, sweetness, and kisses from the angels,
Alicia
I received your last letter with grievous joyfulness of heart. But it left me in a bizarrely blissful fog of befuddlement.
Are you breaking up with me?
May you slumber in the clutches of night,
Coleman
Birds sing in my heart as I imagine our sacred union a beautiful, delicate one-celled creature poised to divide. As its chromosomes line up like toy soldiers smiling at each other across an emerald-green, dew-kissed field, ready to march off singing, and its precious envelope expands to accommodate two separate lives, so I see you and me dancing a final pas de deux before we scamper like children out into the glory of a new, sun-filled morning, each filled with the joy of the other's everlasting caring!
You are so exalted to be facing your tomorrows unburdened by so frail a creature as me! I am consumed by jealousy.
Wishing that your forehead may be cooled by the beating of
the wings of a thousand butterflies and your heart be warmed by
the yips of a litter of newborn puppies,
Alicia
I quiver under my dawning awareness that you are most gently untangling yourself from the twisting branches of my pulsating love.
How can this be, invader of my dreams? My heart palpitates erratically only for you. You inspire gastronomic disturbances deep within my soul!
Your most,
Cole
Sweetness! You ask, "How can this be?" that we are soon to part ways. I must answer or live in torment.
Your love for me is beyond doubt. Your intentions, unreproachable. Your devotion -- granite-like. But the way you express all these to me...
Cole, dear, do you recall saying, "To look upon your face, Alicia, is to see the deepest realization that man is not long for this Earth"? What is that supposed to mean?
Or do you remember: "I will chew burning coals for you, my Alicia, as soon as I can concoct a proper sauce"? That's disgusting.
Or how about: "It is only amid the suffocating tendrils of your affection, Alicia, that I am able to confront the loneliness of my simple yet profane humanity"? How am I supposed to take that?
Coley dearest, please take some English courses, or at least purchase a thesaurus. Otherwise, our most holy union is destined to be torn asunder.
Hopefully,
Alicia
I have carefully composed this letter using the most current version of Roget's, so I am hopeful that I will express myself in a manner that is more to your liking and more in line with what you find acceptable.
Please remain the recipient of my love, Alicia. I believe you are a person very worthy of loving, and that you are lovable, and that you are entirely capable of expressing love very strongly in return. I find in you a worthwhile companion, a person with whom it is pleasurable to associate, and a woman whose female attractiveness is quite enjoyable to behold.
I should add something that has been distressing me, my most lovely companion. I only attempt to express myself in so grand a manner in an effort to match your own eloquence. Is there any way that you could set aside your thesaurus?
Humbly,
Burning Cole
Yes, I can write a letter without a thesaurus. This is it. How do you like it? I am happy that you started using a thesaurus.
As you can see, I don't have much to say without the thesaurus. It's a good thing to have. It makes it so I can say dull things in a way that isn't dull. But if you want me this way, which is the way I really am, without a thesaurus, heck, you got me.
This feels good to write a letter this way. And it goes much faster. Maybe we shouldn't break up. What do you think?
Love,
Alice
I like the way you are. I am, too (that way). I didn't think you'd like me. The way I really am. But I like you. So maybe you like me, too. Now.
I'm pretty excited. Maybe now I can come down and see you without trying to memorize a speech. Or you can come up. It's only two floors.
I was sad that you wanted to break up. Now I'm not. (sad)
Cole
I'll be right up, lover-man. Merry X-mas.
Al
The hot new game now available on Dimento's new Super 64 platform!
It is 1999.
The division of the classes in the United States is now complete. The rulers -- those who control the money and land -- have for their own amusement taken to pitting members of the underclass against each other in incredibly violent, often lethal motorcycle races called "Moto-Rages". The winner -- or survivor, as is often the case -- gets piles of money, money, money. The loser gets a crash course in botany at a depth of six feet.
Your name is Modus Operandi. You were once a member of the ruling elite. You had it all: a stellar job programming for Piecemeal Data Structures, a fabulous apartment on San Francisco's famous Nob Hill, and a gorgeous fiancee, Arm Ornament. On weekends you used to zip around the Bay Area on your chopper. You even occasionally bet on those poor suckers competing in the Moto-Rages.
But at work you couldn't leave well enough alone, could you? You had to snoop. You had to hack. You broke through the "ironclad" security system of Piecemeal Data Structures. At the time it was great fun...
...but you were caught, you numskull. Piecemeal fired you. You lost your home, your friends...even Arm Ornament changed the locks on her doors. Now you know: Piecemeal Data Structures is not to be trifled with.
Which brings us to where you are now: nowhere. You have nothing left to your name -- no family, no place to live. You have only your chopper, which is beginning to act up. Maybe you could use it to deliver pizza in Sausalito...
An old friend, Slyme Bickle, with whom you used to cruise babes, tells you to meet him at one of The City's most notorious watering holes -- the Down-and-Out. Bad idea.
When you arrive, Slyme tells you about an upcoming super-championship moto-rage with a million-dollar purse (about $10,000 in today's currency), instant celebrity, and a cushy government job -- "The UltiMoto".
This is your chance to get back everything you lost. If you win, you win big.
If you lose...you lose bigger.
You enter The UltiMoto. You have no choice. You've had a taste of being on top and you'll do anything to get back there.
Anything...
Slyme outfits you with sixteen bombs, an AK-47 and two hundred rounds of ammunition, a very sharp steak knife that hasn't been washed very thoroughly, and a squirt gun. You also have a snazzy lapel flower that shoots poison gas. If you want more weapons and ammo, you have to attack other competitors or loot stores that you pass along the race route.
If you reach Level Fourteen and you kill this monster, you'll find a bottle of this stuff that you can rub on that makes you invincible so nothing can harm you and then you'll pretty much win the game because nobody here at the game company can figure out a cooler way to end it.
In the UltiMoto, everyone is your enemy. Shoot at anything that moves. If something gets in your way, throw a bomb at it or run it over. Your name is mud and nobody feels sorry for you. Get used to it.
The UltiMoto race course is based upon the terrain of the San Francisco Bay Area. But Dimento's Super 64 graphics and computing capabilities have made possible endless variations on the landscape, which means that you'll never be able to master the course. Since you can never master it, you'll probably never make it to Level Fourteen, which means you'll never find the bottle of that invincibility stuff, which means you'll never win the game. But you'll keep trying because if you weren't one of those obsessed, monster-ego, I-even-had-an-Atari video game fiends, you wouldn't have bought a game like this.
All that silliness in the big heavy introduction above really doesn't mean much. The girlfriend doesn't appear except when you pass her along the course occasionally, she waves and blows you a kiss and then tries to blow you away. The "Slyme Bickle" character never does anything. And all that happens with the "Piecemeal Data Structures" company is this guy's head keeps appearing on the screen assuring you that you'll never finish the game and saying unkind things about your lineage.
"Moto-Lunatic!" is a healthy way for your little darling to work out his aggressions. (The game is not recommended for use by little girls because killing and maiming and blowing things up have been shown to promote unladylike behavior.)
Your boy's hand-eye coordination will improve dramatically in a very short time, which will make him very good at other video games, so have your wallet nice and limbered up. Within a few weeks of commencing play, his demeanor will become cranky and antisocial, which should qualify him for one of those special school programs that the government sets up for disturbed children, which will ensure that he receives a much more tailored education.
Studies have shown that the younger the age at which a boy begins playing "Moto-Lunatic!", the sooner the onset of his rebellious adolescent behavior, and the sooner he'll move out and leave you in peace. Or piecemeal.
I was hanging out in a tree (I do that) during a Halloween party thrown by Vladimir and Suzy Alucard (the Ma and Pa Kettle of vampires) in New Orleans (the South Beach of the vampire world) a few weeks ago.
Vlad and Suz were talking together on the balcony when suddenly she threw a drink in his face (that's the way vampires say "It's over.") Vlad stormed back inside the mansion to rejoin the other guests. Suzy watched him leave, then turned into a bat and fluttered away.
I noticed that she was hovering around my tree, looking for a place to land. I drew back into the shadows because I assumed she wanted to be alone at this stressful moment. She found a place to set down and did so.
As she was neatly folding her wings and trying to catch her breath, another bat fluttered down and landed beside her. Unaware that she had company, Suzy sniffled and shivered in the chill of the evening. She sneezed. "Great -- a head cold!" she muttered.
"Gezuntheidt!" said the other bat.
"Vlad," groaned Suzy, "leave me alone. You've done enough damage."
The other bat raised his wings, bewildered. "'Vlad'? Who's Vlad?"
"I'm serious, Vlad -- I'll call a cop!"
"My name is Jerome," said the other bat.
"Oh, I'm sorry!" exclaimed Suzy. "I was confusing you with -- "
The other bat smiled (as only bats can). "Listen," he purred, "it's freezing up here. What say we swing over to my cave, hang out, and get to know each other?"
Suzy offered him a sad smile. "Thanks, but I'm kind of getting over someone, you know?"
Jerome shrugged. "We'll just talk, I promise."
With another shiver, Suz glanced toward the mansion. "I can't go back in there." She looked at Jerome. "I've got to get into a coffin before dawn. Is there a graveyard around here?"
"My place is across the street from a mortuary -- will that do?" he asked.
Suzy hesitated. "Is it far?" she asked.
"It's just over there." Jerome pointed toward a thicket of trees dripping with Spanish Moss. "Two minutes as the crow flies."
Suzy tossed Jerome a sideways glance. "Your place, huh? I don't know if that's such a good idea."
Jerome smiled easily. "Don't worry," he assured her, "I've got protection."
Suzy shook her head. "How about I take a rain check?"
"No problem," shrugged Jerome. "So...who turned you on to coffins?"
"My husband," she answered flatly.
Suddenly Jerome wheezed loudly, stricken. "Are you okay?" asked Suzy.
"This always happens!" he moaned. "I keep going for the ones that are unavailable. My shrink says it's because I'm afraid of intimacy."
"Bats have shrinks?" she marveled.
"Sure," he answered. "Don't you?"
"I'm going to need one pretty soon," she said. "But how many of them have evening hours, you know?"
"What's this morbid streak you got going?" he asked. "Everything's about night and coffins and graveyards..." Suddenly it hit him. "You're one of those bloodsuckers, aren't you?"
"So are you," she protested.
"Yeah," he said, "but I'm a real bat, not some pretender like you! I can deal with sunshine! I have a reasonable life span."
"Don't knock immortality till you've tried it."
"So how old are you," he jeered, "three hundred years? Four hundred? A thousand? We've got enough trouble with Medicare! All you Eastern Europeans stream into this country and don't contribute a thing..."
"I'm thirty-three," she said. "Vlad only made me a vampire five years ago."
"Oh, newlyweds," he smiled. "How sweet." His smile darkened. "How old is 'Vlad'?"
"Eight or nine hundred, I think," she mused. "I'm not sure."
Jerome shook his head. "There ought to be a law."
"You're pretty judgmental for a bat who was trying to get me into your cave not two minutes ago!"
"Hey," he said, "let's end the war. I didn't mean to get you all riled up. It's just that shape-shifters tend to give us authentics a bad name. But you seem pretty cool." He winked at her. "Sure I couldn't interest you in some nice juicy plums? I got a couple on ice."
"Not tonight," she said.
"How about a toke?" he ventured. "Good stuff -- Humboldt. I got a buddy at a colony up there."
"No thanks."
Jerome shrugged. "I guess it's just bat timing."
And away he flew.
I scoured my many dubious news sources and discovered the following two tidbits, which are sure to astound and confound.
PASADENA -- Scientists at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, using recently developed highly-specialized radio telescopes reported Tuesday the discovery of a substance in at least one major crater on the surface of the moon that appears to be green cheese. The substance's composition has since been confirmed by observation at four other observatories worldwide.
Many experts theorize that the cheese may have long ago been deposited by extraterrestrial visitors bound for Earth for consumption during their trip home. "The lack of atmosphere on the moon," said JPL Co-Director Ronald Hamm, "coupled with its extremely low temperature makes it ideal for food storage. The cheese is probably still edible."
That edibility is still being debated. Many scientists believe that the cheese's uneven greenish "marbling" indicates the gradual progress typical of dairy spoilage, probably slowed considerably in the cold of the moon.
A third, much larger group of scientists and educators representing just about every other reputable observatory on Earth dismisses the "moon cheese" as pure fantasy and hogwash. The issue is still being debated.
Meanwhile, JPL has been besieged with orders for "moon cheese" from cheese enthusiasts, rodent farms, and Melrose restaurants.
REDONDO BEACH -- Forays into the wilds of Rancho Palos Verdes here in Southern California have resulted in contact with a powerful new virus that seems to force its victims to act in a mature, responsible manner. An ad hoc consortium of special interest groups has been formed to respond to the implications of the new disease, and is demanding the immediate diversion of government funds toward finding a cure.
Effects of the virus include honesty, directness, and compassion. Some victims in the advanced stages of infection have displayed a propensity to avoid yelling and return phone calls promptly. No fatalities have yet occurred; indeed, the disease seems to force its victims to improve their health through diet, exercise, and numerous catnaps.
The virus, which appears to mainly attack male politicians, rock musicians, and divorced husbands in habitual default on alimony payments, spreads through casual contact -- notably handshakes.
As two of the above-mentioned categories tend to avoid such potentially legally-binding gestures as handshakes, epidemiologists believe that proliferation within those communities will be slow. The political world, however, may be forced to adopt an entirely new lifestyle.
In light of this, politicians are spearheading the search for a vaccine, and Congress will be voting on the matter as soon as it returns from the holiday break.
Surprisingly, another powerful lobby consisting primarily of liberal activists, educators, and clergy has arisen to implore the government not to find a cure.
A covert battle is being waged as well. Scientists researching the new virus have discovered their laboratories mysteriously cleaned and rearranged (preventing them from being able to find anything), their soothing office and lab background music tapes replaced by bootleg copies of old Nixon speeches, and several were dismayed to learn that embarrassing rumors about the personal lives of their lab animals were being published on the Internet.
Until the harassment abates, researchers at a number of facilities have refused to continue working toward a cure.
Meanwhile, the White House has received several phone threats against the President, with the callers announcing intentions to infect Mr. Clinton himself with the virus. He currently remains in protected isolation while the Secret Service completes its investigation of the threats.
So I put on my invisibility suit and I crashed the "all-girl" dinner party given by a dear friend of mine. Once inside, I saw two women talking: 'Kelly' and 'Lili' (not their real names -- that whole "Dragnet" thing about protecting the innocent). There was a knock at the door and a third woman arrived, 'Zoe'.
Instead of greeting the hostess, Zoe stepped into the room, dropped a heavy tote bag, and growled.
Kelly: What's biting your tush?
Zoe: The human race.
Lili: All of them? At once?
Zoe: I don't have a job.
Kelly: What happened?
Lili: Did you get fired?
Zoe: I quit. I quit! I hate them all. The whole human race.
Lili: But Zoe...five years with the airline... you were almost vested.
Kelly: Spill it, Zo. All of it.
Zoe: Well, you know how during these fare wars every sort of human garbage the Earth has ever vomited up finds enough money for a ticket? We're in the middle of one right now -- New York to L.A., two hundred dollars --
Lili: Really? I should visit my cousin...
Kelly: So...human garbage...
Lili: Oh -- did somebody get fresh?
Zoe: No, it was nothing like that. One of the other flight attendants comes over to me just before takeoff and she's like, "Zo, you're not going to believe this," and I'm all, "Can't you just handle it 'cause I barely got any sleep," and she's all, "No, you've got to see for yourself --"
Kelly: What was it?
Zoe: This passenger had stuck her baby in the overhead bin.
Kelly: That's disgusting! That's criminal!
Lili: Maybe she thought it would be quiet up there -- those planes get so noisy...
Zoe: That's what she said -- "It's quiet up there, and dark, and I just thought she'd be able to sleep better..."
Lili: Sure, but what about the shifting of contents during flight?
Kelly: Someone should shift her.
Lili: Did you kick her off the plane?
Zoe: In mid-air? I said the first thing that popped into my head...
Kelly: Which was..?
Zoe: "Do you realize how many of my friends are trying to get pregnant???" I lost my head. I couldn't stop myself.
Kelly: Apparently.
Zoe: As soon as we landed, I turned in my resignation.
Lili: Where did you put the baby?
Zoe: We just...we made her hold the infant like she's supposed to. Humans are the most despicable creatures ever to roam the Earth. I'm going to marry a chimpanzee.
Kelly: Bad choice. I read somewhere that chimps stray more than human males.
Zoe: Maybe, but it is legal to keep a chimp in a cage.
Lili: I heard it was the female chimps who fool around. That's why the males have such large...uh, storage tanks.
Zoe: It's the females? Fine. Then he's been hurt and he'll be more sensitive. I just want to find a career where I don't have to deal with people at all.
Kelly: No more public. You said it.
Zoe: No -- no more people. Do they have female monks?
At that point I slipped out the back door.
I was driving back from a quarterly meeting of the Pretty Posy Party (my political aspirations run to the...exotic) in beautiful Barstow (in the heart of the California desert) when a piece of paper with handwriting on it landed on my windshield, momentarily obstructing my view.
I kept driving, because I was asleep anyway, so a Highway Patrolperson pulled me over. Together we examined what was written on the paper. It seemed like some sort of suicide note penned by a couple of college students. Its text appears below, in its entirety.
We hit the road in Dave's new car tonight
Our pockets jingling with dollars bright
Maintain your speed so no policeman stops
But not too slow, 'cause, Dude -- it's Vegas Ops!
Bring out the rule book for our eastward drive
Which place shall we hit first when we arrive?
At Caesar's, Holiday, or Desert Inn?
We gleefully pick out our house of sin
I always seem to win at MGM
Their cops have photo cards of me and him
The waitresses at Stardust are the best
They really know star treatment of their guests
We've coupons worth a buffet lunch for free
So Stardust Lounge it is, we all agree
The cloudy sky's all lit up from below
We sail right through the Downtown Vegas show
The lights flow smooth, none broken or burnt-out
They pay repairmen for their daily route
The Strip's alive with fortunes found and lost
With faces cheerful, or completely sauced
Twelve bucks apiece for gas. A room? Ten more
Pick up some toothpaste in the lobby store
Let's skip the room, the gas, and toothpaste, too
Just change it in for chips of red and blue
Tuition paid; the rent can wait a bit
I'll put it down on black, to double it
My car keys ride a second roll of ten
I'll place my schoolbooks on the Pass Line then
I'd rather not commit my lifelong stash
Break out your VISA card to get more cash
Two dollars left. I'll try some Keno picks
Or double down with nine against a six
He drew to twenty-one -- that can't be so
This guy's a thief -- he's cheating me, I know
Just how much longer is this Vegas roam?
I'm broke; I'm bummed. Now please, can we go home?
No bodies have been found. Bantam Books has offered 4.2 for the softcover rights, and Paramount is sniffing around, too. (That's 4.2 dollars -- count them.)
Let's head on down to the shop for a visit with Morty Sfuzzi, automotive expert. Morty is standing in front of a typical American car (a modern sport utility vehicle).
Morty greets us with a brisk smile. "Time now for a quick glance under the hood!" he announces.
The car's hood opens up of its own accord. As though that were nothing unusual, Morty steps up and begins pointing out points of interest in and around the engine.
"Every make is a little bit different," he cautions, "but here's a look at where things usually are. The engine, of course. Spark plugs..." (he jiggles the spark plug wires) "...spark plug wires --"
"Careful!" the car shouts.
"Sorry," Morty answers sheepishly. He looks at us. "Some cars are very sensitive." He pulls out the dipstick and displays it for us in all its glistening glory. "We'll show you how to use the oil dipstick to check the oil level later." He shoves it back in. "In you go --"
The car giggles. "That tickles!"
"Sorry," says Morty. "I didn't mean to do that."
"Quite all right," says the car soothingly.
Morty looks at us. "Remember -- listen to your car."
"Right you are," agrees the car.
"Get to know your car's hums, squeaks, groans -- all those wonderful machine noises." Morty looks off to a corner of the spotless shop where several technicians stand at the ready. "Shall we start her up?" he asks.
"Start him up," says the car indignantly.
"Beg pardon."
"Quite all right."
Morty nods to the techs. "Let's start him up."
"Shall I do it myself?" offers the car.
"Yes, if it isn't too much trouble."
The car responds, "No trouble at all," and starts up of its own accord. It even opens its passenger door. "Please, step in."
Morty hesitates. "Uh, shouldn't I be in the driver's seat?"
"I'd rather you weren't," says the car. "Too many cooks and all that."
With a shrug, Morty gets into the car. The door closes. Morty looks at us. "Now, as you can see," he says, "we --"
The car interrupts. "By the way, that's very sexist."
"What is?"
"Always referring to cars as females," says the car. "Same with boats and trains. My friends and I detest it."
Morty now looks entirely confused. "Well, what do you and your friends want to be called?"
"What we are," answers the car. "Coupe. Sedan. Sport Utility Vehicle. Hatchback..."
"But that takes so long to say," Morty protests. "'He' or 'She' is much easier.'
"Gee, Morty," snaps the car, "how about if I just call you 'Ort'?"
"'Morty' is much easier to say than 'Sport Utility Vehicle'!"
"Fine," the car says angrily. "Get out." The door opens.
"What?"
"Get out," says the car. "You hurt my feelings."
"For heaven's sake!" laughs Morty.
"First you're poking around under my hood -- a very private place, I might add," lectures the car, "and now you can't even be bothered to address me properly --"
"'Morty' is a nickname, too!" protests Morty. "It's short for 'Mortimer'!"
"Fine," grumbles the car. "Then call me 'Sporty'."
"This is ridiculous. Come on, we're here to listen to your noises."
"These are my noises."
"Can't you just give us a small demonstration?" Morty pleads.
"You want a demonstration?" barks the car. "I got your demonstration right here..." The door slams shut. The engine starts up.
Morty, trying to hide his worry behind a crooked smile, says: "That of course was the sound of the car starting up. Perfectly normal."
"Now let's have some fun," the car shouts over the sound of the engine as it revs higher and higher.
"That's the sound of an engine revving too high," Morty explains for us. "Very bad."
"How about this?" growls the car. "Is this 'very bad'??" Suddenly, there's a loud snap from under the hood!
"There goes the fan belt," Morty nods confidently.
"Now we're really smoking!" gloats the car as smoke begins to puff out from under the hood, accompanied by loud hisses.
"Let's do some detective work," Morty grins at us conspiratorially. "That sound is either the oil boiling or the radiator getting ready to blow."
"It's both," the car helpfully advises.
Morty nods. "I'll just be getting out now..."
The doors lock!
"Come on," goads the car, "there's lots more noises to investigate... 'Ort'!"
"Yes," Morty says uneasily, "but our viewers can only take in so much..."
"What about this one?"
Something snaps under the hood, unleashing a fast diga-diga-diga sound, followed immediately by a sharp pop. Morty is too nervous to recognize the sounds...
"Well, you auto-shaman?" needles the car.
Morty frowns. "I can't place it..."
"Water pump. How about this one?"
The engine revs up to unimaginable speed, then slams into Reverse! The car jumps back a few feet, then the transmission explodes!
"Well?"
Morty, knuckles now white with fear, gulps. "Transmission?"
"You got it."
"You slammed it into Reverse at top speed," Morty exclaims, breathless.
"Right again."
"Not a good thing to do."
"Not at all," agrees the car. "How about this little number?" The car backfires loudly.
Morty groans with disgust. "Oh, you didn't have to do that!"
"Hey," says the car, "I am what I am. Now for the finale!" The engine revs up, the wipers wipe, the radio blares -- basically, the car does everything it possibly can without moving forward. Morty is more than a little worried...
Finally, the engine sputters out, and everything else shuts down. Morty's door falls open tiredly.
Morty practically collapses with relief. "Ah!" he sighs, "Out of gas."
"That was your doing, wasn't it?" grumbles the car.
Morty pats the dashboard. "Thanks, uh, Sporty. Always a pleasure." He smiles at us easily. "Remember: listen to your automobile."
You heard it here first.
Check your local listings.