Ludwig is an expensive, high maintenance Shitewagen.
Unwittingly crafted by the same company who make Road Impalas. God, how embarrassanté. He's beautiful, gay and cute, but he's fuck off high maintenance.
Anyway, this year is different. Ludwig's
Could you imagine saying to a mechanic: Find everything that is wrong with this car...and I mean everything...and fix it.
Nope, I couldn't imagine it, even after those exact words spilled from my mouth. I normally throw monkey wrenches at mechanics for trying to rip me the fuck off, only because I wear heels and have a vagina.So the mechanic phones me to quote the repairs.
Ludwig is basically falling apart at the moment, so there's a lot to fix. I mean he's sounding more like the Old Beetle that smokes 45 cigarettes a day, than the New Beetle.
But this time, I don't answer the phone quivering and dreading the foreseeable.
Man: Madam, your car needs a new starter motor.
Peas: Yip, he most certainly does.
Man: It's the motor that starts the engine.
Peas: Of that I am aware. Put in a new one.
Man: You sure?
Peas: Put in two actually. Just to make sure.
Man: OK, and new front break pads, and an oil change. That's the urgent stuff.
Peas: What's the not-so-urgent stuff?
Man: A new fanbelt, oil filter and an air-mass metre. The fuel pump is giving trouble, but it's not urgent just yet, your car will survive.
Peas: 'Survive!' Whaaaaat! We cannot have that. I don't want it to simply survive, I want it to...strive! Strive...and like overtake, and look shit-hot, and stuff....
Peas: That air mass thingie: It's what's fucking up the power isn't it? It's why I need to go up the hills in 4th now, isn't it? It's why I can't dice people when I have the air-con on at traffic lights, correct?
Man: Yes. It's cracked, but it doesn't need to be changed right now.
Peas: Change it this instant. Can't have my car driving at half mast. This is a performance vehicle.
If it's dying or even half broken, change it now. Now....NOW! [Booming voice]
Man: Whatever you say lady....Wiper blades?
Peas: Ah yes, ta.
Peas: I was told the cambelt isn't doing so hot.
Man: The cambelt is fine. It's practically...flawless.
Peas: You sure?
He states the grand total, wincing as he does so. I love that he is expecting me to throw an instant thrombosis.
Peas: Awesome thanks, I'll collect him at 5:00.
Peas: Yes, his name is Ludwig. He's a dude, dude.
Man: Woah-kaaay then.
And on top of it? The mechanic abrased out the paint from my side-swiping-pole accident. He looks like new. From the side.
Because the front grill still needs to be replaced from that COCK-KNOCKING PISSWANKER who reversed into me with his tow hitch.
Besides that, he looks and feels like a fucking Ferrari! I don't think my car has ever been in such great shape in its life! Stuff an Audi, I'm keeping Ludders for longer!
He's just flying up the hills again; he's overtaking Bentley's; he's taking
You cannot hear him. He simply makes no noise. My car's value has just gone up by about 2 000%.
And! It didn't even cost the price of a small man-made Dubai island.
God I'm stoked. I have never in my life had such a pleasurable vehicular experience.
(Apart from that one time, back at university camp, in the parking lot...) PS: My Hot Pom is almost funnier than me. Almost means I need to up my game. I wonder if he still thinks I am a MENSA member though?
PPS: They say your sense of smell starts to return, hammer & tongs, once you quit smoking.
I gotta say people: I'm not liking what I'm smelling.
The supermarket smells rank ok. And people seem to have these little pockets of smelly funk about them. Am I wrong? I mean, it's putrid. Perhaps it's just my nasal hairs regrowing. But I just gotta lay it out there: I'm not loving what I'm smelling.