I love my car. It's a 1998 green Jeep Wrangler, with a three-inch lift and big tires. I bought it about a year ago, and I've wanted one since I was 15 years old. Now, before I start to sound like an asshole by talking about my material possessions on a myspace.com blog, I need to explain the kind of vehicle that I was driving prior to my purchase of the Jeep. It was a 1995 Chrysler Lebaron convertible, red with a white top. I called it "The Red Baron". I'm assuming, because everyone always told me that their grandmother had a car just like it, that it was the preferred mode of transportation for the elderly. I'm also assuming it was favored by homosexuals, because of all the people that screamed "NICE CAR, FAG!" at me as I drove by. I'd have to roll down the window and politely explain to them that I did, in fact, prefer the company of women. At this point in my life, though, I had weird bleached hair, 5 earrings, and a bar through my tongue, so I don't think anybody really believed me.
By the time I was ready to sell it, the car was pretty much a fucking trainwreck. The front seat was propped up with a guitar amp, the electric top and the air conditioning didn't work, and I had just gotten into an accident, crumpling the hood and for some reason causing the car to overheat if I drove it for more than 20 minutes. I managed to get it to the Jeep dealership through a combination of hate-filled determination that I would soon no longer be driving this twisted lump of useless metal and the fact that it was raining, which was undoubtedly keeping the car cool enough so that it wouldn't explode and kill me.
When I got there, there was steam literally pouring out from under the hood, and I could see all of the Oily Salesmen inside nudging each other and laughing. Fuck you, Oily Salesman. I may have arrived in a shit car, but I have the negotiation powers of a particularly intelligent fox, maybe one that's been to a few years of grad school or something.
So one of the Oily Salesmen (I think his name was "Skip" or "Deuce" or something awful like that) takes me around and shows me the car I had been looking at online, and I'm suitably impressed and everything, and he keeps calling me "sport" and "guy" so often that I kind of want him to die. We go inside, and the negotiations begin:
Oily Salesman: "Okay, guy, that sure is a great choice your'e making! Yessir, everyone loves those Jeeps! Great in the summer!"
Me: "Yeah."
Oily Salesman: "Ha ha ha!"
Me: "Um...What? "
Oily Salesman: "Right!"
Me: "Anyway...So how much will you give me for my old car?"
Oily Salesman: "Well, sport, how much do you think we should give you?"
Me: "Well, I think the bluebook value is about $2,000 for a vehicle in poor condition, so maybe....$1500 or something?"
Oily Salesman: "We'll give you $200 for it."
Me: "Okay."
Fuck them and their Hannibal Lecter mind-games. I was just happy to no longer be driving around in a car immediatley associated with 95 year old gay men. Now that I had a Jeep, things would be different; women would line up to have sex with me, and I would no longer be embarassed to pick a girl up for a date or have to make a "boop-boop" noise while pointing my keys at the car to pretend that I had remote entry. It would be awesome.
Sadly, this is not the case. 99% of girls say they like Jeeps, but if they actually have to ride around in one, will bitch incessantly. Their hair gets blown and tangled; it's to hot in the summer and to cold in the winter; going over bumps makes their cramps hurt when they're on their periods or whatever. I try to be accomodating, I even went out and bought a pack of multicolored hair ties that sit around my stickshift, so now it kind of looks like a Pride flag. It still didn't help.
I have other hilarious anecdotes about my car, such as not understanding the concept of "mudding", or having people laugh at me when I do the "Jeep wave" and the other person totally ignores me. But I have to drive home in the rain now, and I'm undoubtedly going to get soaked because I don't have the doors on. But I love my car, so it's okay.
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