Thursday, 31 March 2016

What is my Car squeaking about?

"Chitty squeak, clackety screech" the dashboard in the car sings merrily as we drive about town. It sings like it's someone's Great Aunt Ethel, with a high-pitched voice that is both annoying and familiar; nattering away non-stop as you drive.  Maybe my car is Chitty Chitty Bang Bang's stately relative Great Aunt Ethel.  You don't think cars have great aunts and sing?  Well, apparently you haven't met my car.

If my car really is a Great Aunt Ethel type, it is no doubt telling you to "be careful, and slow down, and watch out for that squirrel, and did you know that your cousin three times removed on your father's side had recently bought those horrid foot gloves that masquerade as shoes and I can't see how it's going to improve her appearance any, and don't you just love those red bougainvillea plants they planted in the median?"

Or maybe it's not Great Aunt Ethel after all.  Maybe the car is singing its own song about roads, stoplights and gas tanks and the smell of freshly paved asphalt roads in the morning.  Perhaps, the car is singing a song that goes "every day out of the junk yard is a good day!"

Maybe I'm driving a cheery realist around town.  He knows and accepts his fate with a dash of cheer, realism, and song.  Its squeaky rattling tune tells of its happiness to be living the life of an automobile to the fullest.  I have enough gas and enough working parts to keep driving, so driving I will go.  Three cheers for working motors!

Or maybe my car is plotting mutiny.  It plans to wait til we have set sail on a long journey of enormous importance and break down leaving us stranded in an inhospitable section of shark infested waters.  Maybe its little creaking symphony is the mutinous mumblings of a car that fancies itself abused and overworked that will crash on purpose at the earliest convenience with a raucous shout of "Drink up mechanics yo ho!" right before it careens full sail into a ditch with faulty brakes.  Just maybe.  Of course, I could just be imagining all of this because I have an advanced case of scurvy induced madness, anything is possible, right?

Whatever it is my car sings or mutters about, it certainly does so at a constant rate.  Sometimes the squeaking cacophony is almost soothing while others it's enough to drive you mad in a mere handful of blocks.  Maybe if I roll a window down a bit it will drown out Great Aunt Ethel's helpful nattering.  Or perhaps, I ought to join in with the song... "every day out of the junk yard is goooooooood day!"  Everyone can use a healthy dose of cheery realism once in awhile, right?

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