Riding the Ankle Express for a While

In a move that will surprise absolutely no one who's actually seen my car, my vehicle appears to be on its last legs. This morning when I went to start it, it let out a long, uneasy grumble before it came to life. Then, once it was running, it sat there grunting and huffing for a while, like a Bulgarian man trying to return a defective waffle iron. Not being much of a manly man, I immediately began to run through all of the car tips I could conjure up.

First tip I remembered: if a car is grumpy, fill it with chocolate milk. I already had the siphon out before I remembered that didn't apply to the car, but to me. Never a man to pass up a milk silphoning, I drained the whole thing myself there in the parking lot. A little girl passed by and said, "Mommy, that man scares me." I replied, "It's okay, little girl, I'm just doing some automative maintenance." Then I lapsed into a lactose-induced coma for a few hours.

Second tip I remembered: feed a tune up, starve an oil change. Again, I realized I was mistaken, but not before I had crammed my exhaust pipe full of ham sandwiches. Quickly turning lemon into lemonade, I fashioned a crude sign and began selling these charred, exhaust-laden sandwiches as "Cody's Smokehouse Barbecue" from the back of my truck. Cody's Smokehouse Barbecue: the only barbecue joint in Austin that serves a 20 page indemnifying affidavit with each special recipe. Extra pickles on request!

At this point, I capitulated my "Head Greasemonkey" title and resigned to paying out the wazoo for some professional service, as they call it. Once I was done with the hooker, I started calling mechanics. Hey o! Note to the Austin Vice Squad: just kidding about the hooker. I couldn't find a single one who knew how to flush a radiator.