Cars are alot like women: they both wear bras, guys with money get the nicest looking ones, and, in both cases, proper lubrication is absolutely essential. Most importantly, neither one will stand for any trash talk.

Case in point: just the other day, I get up early to drive my sister to get her car (read: my car which I specifically indicated was not her car when I gave her permission to drive it while I was away in California) towed, as it had broken down and would not start. On the way back from this adventure, my sister, ever the bastion of positivity, said, and I quote, "Man, your car is fucked." Now, granted, my car has been riding very rough for a year and a half, but it ran. It ran because it knew that although it was not my baby, I would still take care of her to the best of my ability.

But upon hearing this slander, my car suddenly had a change of heart. "Oh, I'm fucked up, huh? Well, fuck you. I don't need to put up with this shit." And, with that, my car died. With the help of a passing bartender who recognized me, I pushed it off to the side of the road. Later the Triple-A tow truck came for the second family car of the day and took it to the same repair shop where a certain silver Nissan Altima was already being repaired.

And so earlier today my good friend Mike took me there to pick her up. I got the car back and was greeted with a $470 bill, of which only 200 or so represented actual parts for the car. Which brings me to another similarity between cars and women: you don't want either one to have to go in to labor.