Last Saturday, Audrey told Richard that she didn’t want to be in a serious relationship anymore, but she still wanted to date. Throughout the course of the week, she sent him lovey-dovey text messages about how much she pines for his man musk. Richard went to her place this past Friday night, and they made sweet, passionate love all night long and on into the morning.
According to the Bureau of Transportation Statistics, there are 254 million passenger vehicles registered in the United States, making it likely that you’ll be in a car accident at some time in your life. Having driven for ten years, I myself have been in five accidents, which I hope satisfies my lifetime quota. Granted, two of the mishaps were before I was 15, so I am unsure whether they count. One came before kindergarten, so I know that one doesn’t count. It came before I could reach the pedals or read the owner’s manual.
I caused my first car accident when I was 2 years old.
“You’re the worst thing that ever happened to me, Thomas. I hope I never see you again, and if I do see you again, I will stab my eyes out with my fingernails.”
The following anecdotes were taken from the new book entitled Horrors of the Hilton: True Stories of the Chambermaid. In the florilegium, several hotel cleaning ladies were interviewed on the things they’ve seen working in the business, and this was the result. Readers beware: some of these stories are more than disturbing. Furthermore, these stores were recorded exactly as dictated. No language has been edited or colloquialisms annotated.
Fred was a car. He wasn’t just any car, he was a Volvo. His daddy was a Volvo, and his daddy’s daddy was a Volvo. If you were a von Auto (that’s their last name), you were a Volvo. There just wasn’t any two ways about it. Unfortunately, Fred was a crappy Volvo. He was an ugly color, he smelled bad, and he liked the taste of gasoline. So Michael, Fred’s user, decided to turn him into a cube. Cubes were appealing and you can easily find the volume of a cube (sł). It’s a pain in the butt to find the volume of a car.
Fred was not one for becoming a cube. He liked roaming the asphalt, the smell of the open road, and the feel of freshly filled tank (He also liked to gawk at the sexy Mustangs, but that’s another story). In order to prevent any permanent geometric disfiguement, Fred ran away. He ran as far as his shoddy, low-on-air tires would carry him. Fred ran all the way to Between, Georgia.
On his way out to the city that time forgot, Fred was exposed to terrible trials and battles. His first such encounter occurred when he was driving and accidently ran over a deceased mole. Fred continued on merry way; and then it happened. He heard a little squeaking sound coming from underneath him. He was being attacked by rabid moles! Morrocco, the leader mole, enslaved Fred and gave him 12 tasks:
Fred was at a loss. After all, he was a car! A lousy car, at best. He couldn’t do any of these things. Fred had to think of a plan and fast. What he did next will be recorded in all the record books as an uncanny feat executable only by souls of great cunning or vast cowardice…
TO BE CONTINUED…
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Sucks doesn’t it? Oh well, stay tuned for next week’s exciting installment.