Sarcastic Letters From My Cars, Addressed To Me; The Hate is Real
From my Roadster Project
Hammer wielder, it is I, your creation.
Please send Igor for more junk, I need body parts; I seem to
be missing many.
And, please, tell Igor to stop bringing home the parts with
the holes in them.
This“flathead” of mine…. did anyone look inside? Will I be firing
on all cylinders?
I’m not sure I’ll be strong enough. I’ll have, what, 100 horsepower… if we’re
lucky?
I request that you pick the car that I should be. With this mix
of parts, I’m fairly certain my job description will be to terrify the village.
“Mustang rear end”… that’s not even a car, it’s a horse.
It’ll be tough to terrorize the village with anything short
of 300 horsepower. Unless I backfire… or
smoke. I might be able to help you out
there.
The cheap mufflers will help with the terrifying; I suppose
I should thank you.
What color will you paint me?
Green seems appropriate.
I hear your girls want to paint me an attractive red… that
seems odd for what you’re making me to be. Maybe try a blood red.
On the topic of blood, I’m sorry I cut you all the time; but
really, all the rough edges are your fault.
When do you anticipate I’ll begin terrorizing the highway
(and neighbors)?
At least Dr. Frankenstein could afford body parts and
equipment. You’re like Dr. Frankenpoor.
And could you get better at stitches?
Take a class or something.
My welds look like a melted candle… that somebody shot.
You know what else is terrifying?
Random electrical issues causing your headlights to turn
off. I can help out there as well. I’m starting to get into character.
You’re really not going to put fenders on me?
Frankenstein’s monster got to wear pants. I think I should get pants too. Frankenstein’s monster would have been silly in
shorts. Yet here I am, with my exposed
dogbones.
Dogbones… why did you choose yet another animal part to
connect the shocks to the axle? Do they
not make car-bones?
Horse, dog, car… make up your mind.
If you’re going to make a monster, try to make a good
monster.
Your creation,
The Roadster… ish
Salutations Peasant,
I’m writing to complain of the deplorable things you’ve done
to me. I feel that my treatment has not
been in keeping with my high status. I
trust that you know that I’m English aristocracy… right?
William Morris, who founded Morris Garages (MG), and whom I
consider my father, was a Viscount; therefore, I’m surely of noble birth.
You may think, because you found me in a junkyard, that you
saved me. Just the opposite is
true. I was practicing philanthropy at
that junkyard. I was making the other cars happier by gracing them with my
presence.
And now, I’m afraid I must coach you on the ways you must
respect the aristocracy, if we are to maintain a healthy relationship.
Firstly, the individual you force me to share a flat with is
utterly unbearable. His flathead smells
like ninety-year-old oil, and he keeps droning on about how someday he’ll
terrorize the village. I’d be concerned,
excepting that he seems quite lazy; I’ve never seen him move an inch of his own
accord.
And, my flat mate needs to put on some clothes. You can see his frame and exhaust! He says you’re finding skin for him. Please hurry; I’m shocked by his roughly
welded undercarriage.
Enough said, on that front.
Let’s talk about the respect due to a lady.
You have fallen short in your duty.
I was happy to hear that I was to receive a new paint
job. Looking one’s best is in keeping
with the high standards of my birth.
But yet, you seem to have failed. Why do I still have dents?
Were you not aware that you’re supposed to fight the signs
of aging, not accept them?
They invented bondo for a reason. It is the plastic surgery for ladies of my
type; automobiles, that is.
Also… I heard you mention the oil drops that I leave in the
garage. That is entirely unacceptable. A
ladies’ oil drops should never be mentioned.
All English auto-ladies share this trait, it is a sign of our
Britishness and delineates true British cars. It is an honor that part of me
shall always live in the concrete where you park me.
And these parts that you put on me are disrespectful! To think, I now have a sway bar, high
compression engine, thrush exhaust and taller gearing… the other tea-club
ladies would be shocked if they knew what was hidden under my bonnet.
And the autocross racing must stop immediately. They are completely undignified. The way you hustle me around the track is
most unbecoming. A lady should never be
forced to corner with such force. I have tried my best to lean way over and
open the door but, unfortunately, the aftermarket seatbelt you installed seems
to keep you in.
Lastly, I must request more baths. This layer of dust I often wear isn’t
acceptable. I’m not on safari in the
colonies. Please, draw me more
baths. And use the finest of soap; if I
must be dented, I should (at least) be shiny.
Your glorious car,
The MGA
Hey Man,
It’s me, the big block, 1 ton, crew cab, long bed, Ford
truck. You know, the massive thing
parked in front of your house.
I was surprised that you bought me. I mean, most people that want to pull a
trailer buy the diesel trucks. After
all, that’s kind of what they were made for.
But, of course, it is kind of what I was built for too. I guess.
I mean, someone at Ford must have had a reason to tack two more
cylinders onto their lethargic engine; one can only assume it was for pulling
trailers.
Pulling trailers does put a lot of strain on me though.
I tried to tell the last guy that owned me about the strain,
by shooting a spark plug out.
Still, you figured out how to fix the plug hole with
stronger and longer threads. Now, I
can’t warn you of the immense pressure you’re putting me under by shooting a
spark plug out. You win, for now.
But it is a lot of pressure man.
You ever try and pull a twenty-five foot toy hauler over a
mountain grade?
I was screaming last time.
I needed to tell you. So, I found something else to shoot out. Seems my emission hoses were a little loose. I managed to get one of them to shoot off.
It was funny to see how worried you were when you thought
you might have destroyed your engine because of the sudden loud ticking.
You deserved it, after pushing me so hard.
I see you’ve clamped those emission hoses.
This trailer pulling can’t go on. Ford designed me to look tough, but I’m not a
diesel. I’m just not. I may be huge, but it’s not muscle. You need
to understand who I really am.
I’ll have to find something new to shoot out the next time
you push me to the brink. You must be
reminded that I’m not a diesel. I may be
big, but I’m a sensitive big.
Oh, and that little green John Deere thing that the kids leave next to me would like me to remind you that he needs a battery.
Please remember I’m sensitive,
Your Massive Truck
From the Commuter SUV
Sup dude,
It’s the Xterra. Just wanted to say “Hi”, but don’t want to
bother you.
I try not to bother you.
Sorry about that one time my thermostat went bad. They say that some parts have to be replaced,
but I try hard to not let it happen. One thermostat, in two hundred and thirty
thousand miles isn’t bad right?
I was shooting for no problems, whatsoever. I was so close.
Also, I wanted to apologize that I’m getting older. That oil leak drip onto the manifold smells
bad, I know. I don’t want to be a
burden, but you might consider opening the hood and seeing if you can tighten
the valve cover bolts. Just a
suggestion. Don’t worry if you don’t have time though. It might take, like, two minutes. But, I know you’re busy.
Thanks for driving me everyday for like, ten years. Your loyalty means a lot.
Still, the signs of aging are starting to get to me. Hey, if you get the chance, could you maybe
pick up some new speakers? I enjoy the
tunes as much as you, but now that we’re down to only one non-blown speaker,
it’s kinda weird to listen to music only from my back right rear. Just think, we could blast heavy metal in
stereo again. I know, I’m old, but I
think Thomas Edison’s first phone had better sound quality than that one
remaining speaker.
I’d probably feel like an all new car if we could get the
jams back. True, with the oil burning I wouldn’t smell like a new car, but I
would sound like it!
And, on the subject of the senses… we might want to paint
some of those chipped spots before I start to rust. But, hey, wasn’t it convenient that Nissan
seems to have galvanized my skin so that I’m not rusting. Man, I sure like being low maintenance.
Well, hey man, if I can, I’ll give you another hundred
thousand miles!
Doing my best,
The Xterra
From our Family SUV
Hey loser,
It’s your family rig.
Yeah, you know, the one you try to totally ignore.
It’s ok, I just haul your family everywhere. No big deal.
Why would you give me any attention?
Do you enjoy our game?
Yeah, that game where I make some random noise or smell that
you can’t figure out for two years.
You finally figured out the fuel filter was causing the odd
smell, so now I’m squeaking bizarrely from the front.
Seems like you might be getting close to figuring out the
squeak too (I was laughing when you tightened down the fan shroud, zip tying it
to everything… not even close, Loser).
What’s it been, a year of squeaking?
Wasn’t it convenient that I didn’t ever make the noise when you
made someone bounce up and down on my front bumper?
But don’t worry, if you do find the squeak, I’ll find
another way to annoy you for years.
Oh, and I was dying laughing when you tried to get my
swollen lug nuts off. That was a fun
trick Ford played, putting those cheap lug nuts on. That reminds me to write a thank you letter
to whoever sourced Ford’s lug nuts from the Phillipines. Watching you struggle to find a socket that
would fit was hilarious, since no socket was that size. Then once you did beat the socket on with a
hammer, watching you struggle with the four foot cheater bar was a new joy. Then, watching you struggle to get the old lug
nuts out of the socket was icing on the cake.
I was dying. Your anger was so funny. I was so glad Ford played that lug
nuts trick on you.
I heard you say that you want a Tahoe with an LS motor. Yeah, well, I want that for you too. Hurry up and sell me Loser.
What’s with your wife, why is she so forgiving? Most other women would have asked their
husband to buy a different car about a month after you bought me. Remember how bad I smelled? Ha ha, nothing like the smell of a previous
owner’s wet labrador, literally. I’m bummed that fragrance faded away. I hear the Xterra is leaking oil onto the
manifold; maybe I should try that.
We need a divorce,
The Expedition
From my Enduro Motorcycle
Brap,
XR here.
I’m dying.
Literally.
I’m leaking fluid out of every extremity.
Please, put me into surgery.
I need restoration.
I thought I’d get help when I blew up. I thought I forced your hand.
Then, I watched you peel the aluminum from the piston off
the valves, slap a new piston in, and put me back together.
I weep whenever you start me. Literally.
Please help me. I was
born in 1996. That’s like two hundred
years old in dirt bikes. I need to go to surgery. I need restoration.
Maybe I should try blowing up again. But I’m terrified of how you might fix me.
The XR Hiding in the Garage
From the Street Motorcycle
Shindigle,
Man, you should do something about grandpa XR, he keeps
leaking on me.
Brah, I should be out crashing. You don’t crash me nearly
enough. I only have, like… three major
crashes in 9,000 miles. That’s really
low on the SV scale; I’m slacking compared to my brothers.
Why do you even own me?
I should be doing wheelies in Florida.
And why am I flat black?
I should, at least, have weird anime stickers on my tank.
Can’t we participate in some street takeovers?
I was born to be impounded.
Remember, that is where you found me.
You’re the lamest SV owner ever.
So bored,
SV
From the Lotus 7 replica I sold
YOU SOLD ME?! REALLY?!
Somehow the Mountain Bike wrote one
Yo, it’s your fun friend the mountain bike! Isn’t it weird that I don’t even have a motor
but I give you the most fun?
Maybe you should buy a car without a motor. Like a horse and buggy! Think how much adrenaline that setup would
give you when the horse freaks out because (yet another) Dodge Ram is
tailgating you!
Or, maybe you could find a pedal car, like the
Flintstones. The uphills would be a
bear, but throw a few tabletops and berms in on the downhill and you’d have a
blast!
Let’s go rip somewhere,
The Mountain Bike
