My Car, Part II.

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My car has the ability to go invisible, but it never needs to.

One day, I was late and the 10 was backed up, and my car was like, “Don’t worry, man. I got this.” And it’s not like it did anything to fix the traffic situation or anything but the AC was nice and I had some tunes on, so it really wasn’t that bad.

My car once competed in a Grand Priz against a thousand other cars, including Speed Racer’s Mach 5 and Vin Diesel’s Whatever Vin Diesel’s Car is Named and my car came in third, which is pretty good considering the competition.

My car has its own PR team that writes hyperbolic assertions about my car’s greatness on a blog in order to drum up some work.

My car once cut off Steven Spielberg’s car. It didn’t even use a turn signal, and later Spielberg’s car called to apologize.

My car has a top speed of a billion miles per hour but who would ever need to go that fast?

My car burns so much rubber, I was arrested for starting an illegal tire fire. I went to court about it, alleging that the law prohibiting unpermited tire fires certainly wasn’t intended to cover accidental tire fires caused as a result of locomotive action. The judge sympathized with this argument, but ultimately ruled that anything causing the death of six children (when the tire fire spread to a nearby orphanage) could not possible go unpunished in a civilized society, and I was sentenced to ten years in a maximum security prison. Fortunately, my car managed to break out of the impound lot and bust me out of jail by sneaking in wearing an old-lady wig and giving me a cake with a Glock inside. I shot my way out and disappeared, changing my name and adopting the guise of a student living in Los Angeles. I probably shouldn’t be telling you this.


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