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September 3rd, 2001
Last week the time finally came for me to trade in the worn out, rubber coated keys of my old '84 Volkswagen Rabbit and join the ranks of those who drive cars that aren't hell bent on killing their owners. For some reason, as I sat there in the salesman's office finishing the deal, sentimentality suddenly got the best of me. Form after carbon paper form being thrust in my direction suddenly lost all focus through the thin well of tears pooling up my eyes. Incredibly, this moment that should have been "Whoopie! I've got a new car!" quickly degenerated into "I can't believe I'm sending my old buddy pal to occupy a four foot square in a landfill!" Sorry if this isn't up to our regular comedy standards, but this one is for me. I've got to let out these lip-quivering feelings I've got bottled up inside... and I'm doing it in a moving and heartfelt eulogy entitled...
By Marcus
For example, my first car was an '85 Ford Escort Wagon named "Uncle Death," because at any given time you expected it to kill you in an avuncular fashion. Uncle Death committed suicide after I had owned him for four months.
When I moved to Los Angeles, I bought this semi-shiny, demi-reliable silver Rabbit from some marginally raving man who liked to write pretend contracts on scraps of newspaper.
But what to call my new chariot? The thing about car names is that you can't choose one. Like it or not, one will just suddenly stick.
Since I was still all proud of myself over Walkin' on Sunshine back then, I started referring to her as the "Toaster Coaster." That stuck like velcro on milk.
Being the consummate science fiction dork, Caster suggested "The Burbank Flyer." When our quizzical looks prompted him to elaborate, he explained "You know, like on Voyager... the Delta Flyer..."
That one lasted all of 45 seconds.
Then one night when I was out drinking with some of my friends, the driver of the SUV in which we were traveling tried to squeeze his six grotesque tons of vehicular steel into a space clearly labeled "small car."
If there's one thing that gets my dander up, it's assclowns with Ford Tectonics trying to squeeze a 22 foot wheelbase into a parking space 4 feet wide. In the eloquence of my drunken fury, I screamed "I drive a SMOCKLAR! Thisis a LATTCHCLAR!"
And so it was. Like I said, it's important for a car's name to tell the world what it's all about. Smocklar was a small car driven by an alcoholic.
Nowhere, however was this phenomenon witnessed more than in the "Spice Girls USA '98" bumper sticker.
Just as my fascination in the pre-fab girl band sensation was at its height in '98, so was this glossy, adhesive backed paper. Today, both my interest and this bumper sticker are nothing but sun bleached remnants covered with a smattering of blue ink that refuses to burn away.
Not that this sticker is even a true account of past events. I never had a chance to see the Spice Girls live, as their L.A. show sold out before I could get tickets. Even if I had been there, Ginger Spice had already quit by then. I got this from a Claire's Boutique clearance rack. My life is a lie.
When they made Smocklar, they broke the mold. Then they mashed it into a fine paste and spread it over the interior. The headliner alone had more active culture than Cleveland. Hoo hoo! Oh boy, somebody STOP ME!
On a wet day, and for the subsequent week following, the inside of the car smelled like a tasty mélange of sweaty feet, mildew, and ass.
And don't think that I'm just an irresponsible fuel buyer. Sweet Jesus, this car could go from half a tank to "E" in 500 yards. And Smocklar always had a flare for the dramatic.
In fact, on my way to the car dealer, the very last trip Smocklar and I ever took together, she ran out of gas while going 75 miles per hour down the 134 freeway. As if to show me that she was still the boss of me without actually destroying herself in the process, she managed to almost supernaturally burn her last drops of fuel while traveling with the exact velocity and timing to coast, sans engine, off an exit ramp, through a conveniently green traffic light, and into a gas station, rolling to a brake free stop in front of a waiting pump. I'm not making this up.
And that's not even the first time that she's run out of gas on the freeway. She did it on the 5 out of downtown once too. And that time she also had enough momentum to coast her to safety.
Then there was that time that she ceased to function in the middle of the 405 during our trip to Vegas. Believe it or not, again, rolling through traffic to the shoulder without a functional engine.
But things didn't always work out so well for the old girl. We had our share of scrapes. There was that time that I just drove directly into a four foot orange concrete pole that I later claimed I "thought was farther away." And that time that I drove straight, head on into the wall of a parking garage because I "didn't see it." And... well I always liked to ram stray shopping carts.
You know how it is. There's that split second preceding an accident where life suddenly blurs into slow motion. You know tragedy is about to ensue, but you're powerless to avoid it.
Such was the case when I tried to park one day, and ended up pretty much completely failing and driving straight into the fender of a parked car, which I later claimed "was parked too straight for the spot."
The corner of Smocklar's bumper slammed deep into the fender of the Honda, drawing a wide, black dent across it like a sharpie marker through butter before screeching completely off the creased body panel into its wheel well with a resounding bang.
When I tried to back up and escape, I found that my little car was now hooked, and irrevocably locked to the inside of the Honda's frame. With people starting to gather to watch, I decided to use the "tear the band aid off fast" method, and gunned it backwards, tearing a chunk out of Smocklar's abused bumper.
Well, there went my insurance premium.
I could, that's who.
I have no idea where this dent came from, but whatever it was, it was significant enough for my mechanic to look behind it and scream "Acht! You bercrunchen der wheelenmechen, Herr Boobhausen!"
Okay, so my mechanic is German, and I don't understand most of what he says. Still, it seemed like a pretty big deal.
Note that after almost an entire year, a bit of packaging tape from the Doo Dah Parade still remains.
And then, after all these years of good times and near death experiences, what do I do to my trusted friend and adventure partner? I just go and trade her in, like she's some big, barely functional, mildew smelling, dent riddled piece of garbage. For only 200 bucks, no less.
As I was signing her over to certain doom, I felt like Judas when he handed Christ over to the Indians for only 24 dollars worth of beads and trinkets.
When I asked the dealer, not really wanting to hear the answer, what would become of my poor little car, I was told that she would be "sold wholesale at auction."
Now I don't know what that means, exactly, but it sounds hopeful, doesn't it? Better than the "We're going to fill it with dynamite and push it off the cliff out back" that I was expecting.
Now my happy thought is to picture Smocklar and a robot Haley Joel Osment traveling across the countryside, searching for the true reason their loving parents abandoned them into this cruel world all alone.
Smocklar, I like to think that you're looking down on me happily from automotive heaven right now... but I know you probably broke down halfway there.
ADDENDUM: Shortly after she left this world, Smocklar was immortalized in polygons in the ultra-violent video game, Postal 2. Our friend Timb was in charge of modeling vehicles for that repulsive, disgusting game, and he rebuilt my little silver Rabbit in glorious 3D for gamer geeks everywhere to virtually throw up on.
 
All content © 1999-2007 misinformer.com. Damn you Kelley Blue Book! Doesn't love count for anything anymore?!
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It's important to give your car a name that really describes it. One that tells the world what it's all about.
Smocklar was like a time capsule. A history of fads gone by. From the long since exhausted hula girl air freshener, to the leopard skin seat covers, to the inexplicable dice for door locks, everything on the car screamed "it seemed like a good idea at the time."
No amount of conservative driving, continual tune ups, or good old fashioned pleading could get this little car anywhere close to the neighborhood of her original EPA gas mileage estimation. She was a thirsty beast, pissing through a full eight gallons in about fifty miles. Needless to say, we ran out of gas. A lot.
But with her gorgeously gnarled bumpers, nary a scratch was added to the Smocklar in any of these incidents. She didn't show any damage from anything that I ever hit until that damn Honda came along.
And who could forget that time that I smashed the bottom spoiler thing into something.
