The Saga of Professor Bruno
Bruno is my 1989 Ford Ranger, as I may have introduced him before. As he is almost antique, this car is doomed to have personality. Originally, his name was just plain Bruno, but with a Master's Degree in being a bitch to drive and a seat cover reminiscent of an old English professor's tweed sweater, he gained an aura usually saved for pipe-smoking old scholars that have nothing better to do than talk of Melville and Shakespeare all day. Hence the addition of Professor. He has a manual transmission (hence having a male name. I'd name it Hedwig if I were superstitious), no AC, just recently the gas gauge started working by divine intervention, he eats the clasps for the seat belts, and only the right speaker works. Now, occasionally, when Bruno liked a song, the right speaker would come in, allowing me to hear the intended harmonies and nuances in the music that would make me squee (yes, squee) with delight.
Well, last Thursday, Bruno decided to get in a fight with this:
What I endearingly call the Anti-Bruno. A black, huge, GMC Sierra with an automatic transmission and a grill decided to commit the Auto Hate Crime of all hate crimes and bitch slap my poor little podunk white, stick-shift Ford on the intersection of my parent's neighborhood and Chastain Rd. Now, this accident could have been avoided had I not failed to yield at a left turn and if the motherfucker has decided to go the actual speed limit. The accident was definitely my fault because, y'know, I failed to yield. Anyway, I make a left turn into the right lane and hear the honk before the crunch. I feel the guy slam into the back of my car, Bruno swerves to the left while Anti-Bruno plows into the passenger side and Bruno swerves to the left again to a halt, looking directly at the Sierra. I dumbfoundly get out of my car and gaze in horror at the damage done to my car.
On a side note, I was going to buy cigarettes before heading home to dress for Jessica's 21st birthday party and was coming home from my parents' house just after starting the process of signing Bruno over to me. And I was listening to Meatloaf's "Bat Out of Hell." The irony is so rich, it rots my teeth.
Anyway, to cut this long story short, my car is in the auto-hospital and looks like this:
Since then, I have had to use all the money I allotted for my personal gas to pay for the tanks of others. I am grateful that neither me nor the other people were hurt. I had the cutest cop in the history of ever evaluating my accident. The court date is September 23 at the lovely hour of 8:30 in the bloody morning.
So, other than that, I'm alive and well. Waiting for information on any repairs. If the frame is bent, I'm fucked sideways but if not, I think all that needs to be fixed is the wheel/axel. Sure, he looks ugly as sin but if he's salvageable, I will stick a band-aid bumper sticker on his side saying "Ouch."
I guess that's all for entertainment. I bid you good day!
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