FACT: My soccer mom minivan car is possessed.
If you ever get to read my obituary, I'm 100% certain that it will include details about how my evil ass car was the ultimate culprit of my demise.
I'm not exaggerating. It hates me. With a fucking passion. And will settle for no less than making sure that I suffer it's evil wrath for countless amounts of lollipops, candy bars, and juice boxes permanently cemented to her interior.
I have proof. Not just any proof. I'm talking about all out, if I could legally sue an inanimate object in court for attempts on my life, I. Fucking.Would. P
roof.
Case in point. (oooh, look, now I get to go all Tom Cruise in "A Few Good Men"!) It. Tried. To. Set. Me. On. FIRE!
Yes,my car, did, in fact, attempt to burn my ass alive a few weeks ago. Not in any sort of, "I'll give you a fucking warning" kind of way, either.
I knew that the brake pads I bought 2 months ago suddenly failed. I knew that the "check engine" light that, coincidentally enough, NEVER registered a code when I had it checked. How.Fucking.Ever. I
NEVER expected to have a meeting with the chief of police, drive 1/2 mile down the road, and find out that my car was, in fact, Stephen King's CHRISTINE!
I left work. It's a simple 4 mile drive home. Sure I smelled smoke, but I assumed that was because I'd shoved so many cigarette butts into the empty Coke can that they didn't burn out.
I pulled up to a stop sign, and all Hell broke loose. And by that, I, of course mean, that Satan Van unleashed her evil fury on me. The wipers went crazy. The lights started flashing on and off like a hooker who wasn't sure if she'd actually be paid. The stereo started sounding like I was playing a Beatles' album fucking backwards just to hear the satanic messages.
3 1/2 miles. That's all I needed to make it. So I continued. Famous last words, I know. That's when it happened. The evil bitch that she is. The car. Caught. On. Fucking. Fire. Yep. You read that right. Smoke started billowing out of the vents. Flames (albeit mini) were visible. And I started to panic.
Roll down the windows? Nope. Not working. So I did what any normal person would do. I pulled over and tried to run for my fucking life. I'll consider it a learning experience that, when your door locks keep popping up and down, you will NOT be able to actually open your fucking door when you need to escape! (Come to find out, it's a timing issue, but, seriously, when you're in the situation, you have no time to deal with those semantics!)
So I called 911.(Fuck. If I'm going to go down in a blaze of glory, I, at the very least, want there to be a record of it!) I couldn't escape. While my van was filling up with smoke, I. Could. Not. Get. Out!
Flash forward 5 minutes...
The fire department and police all showed up.(Yes, I know the perks of working with them.)
I managed to figure out the auto-lock timing and escape unharmed. The van, of course, has managed to kill all fucking evidence of it's attempt to kill me, and I am left wondering how the FUCK I am going to explain this all to my nonexistent insurance company!!! (SIDENOTE: This happened during a 3 day insurance lapse)
So I did what any normal, "has no fucking money to fix their car" person would do. I decided to fix it myself. Yep. That's right. Myself, a quick Google search an ordered part, and a screwdriver.
Two weeks later, I'm back on the road! Granted, I had parts left over and my car now shows an extra 40 fucking thousand extra miles on it, but shit happens.
