My Used Car Dealer

I was in the process of buying this used car many years ago, when I was but a wee lad, looking some over, test driving and all that when one night on a local news show there was a story about a big art heist at a Worcester, MA art museum…and who do I see but my car salesman discussing, very expertly, how they probably did it, why the took the ones they did and left others. It was really, really impressive.

The next day I’m back checking out the car and tell him I saw him on the show and how impressed I was and ask if he used to be an art thief investigator, and hand to god, he tells me:

No, I used to be an art thief.

I’m not certain of the complexities of the human body and it’s working system but I imagine it must have been something akin to how a snake unhooks its mandible when it’s about to swallow prey and thusly my jaw was able to do what it did: which was literally hit the ground.

So later that day, my friend asks me how the car purchase is going and I tell him my car salesman’s a thief and he goes ‘oh, they all are.’ I say, no, I mean that literally. My used car salesman actually IS a thief.

When his mandible didn’t unhitch and his jaw hit the floor, he told me that only works if it’s the actually person’s car salesman. He was a med student. He knows things. And he said besides: At least the guy’s honest. He did tell you.

Very true, I thought. I’m buying a used car from an honest thief.

To be fair to the man: he paid his debt for his old ways with many years in prison and had become a consultant to the police to help apprehend art thieves. He truly had been rehabilitated.

So, I bought the car. This tiny little thing with a stick shift – my first manual – so I got to act like Speed Racer or ‘Obey The Speed Limit, Stop At Every Stop Sign And Yellow Light Racer.’…or, if you ask a psychologist, so I could have a substitute penis in my hand.

This little, used car, for some odd reason, had KILLER speakers, so listening to music was pure joy. I just loved it. Then one day, a woman cut out from a small strip mall parking lot, smashed into me, and totaled it.

No humans were hurt, but my car. I just loved that little car. (Note that at this point a tear is forming in my eye as I write this – my allergies are acting up something fierce – BA-DUM-DUM. (Yes, I stopped to tell that bad joke just for you. No thanks are necessary. Hey, now. No raspberries are necessary, either.)

So, anyway, I did. I loved that car. We fit like peanut butter, banana, and fried egg sandwiches – at least I imagine they fit, you’ll have to ask Elvis. That was his deal.

I looked into pursuing a suit with the woman to recover the cost of it but quickly dropped the idea when I found out if I pursued the claim, according to the Blue Book value, I would actually owe her money.
The moral of this story: None. The point: Can’t think of even one….but it killed some time.