One week ago today, I got my car detailed. You know that outrageously overpriced, 100% completely necessary service where you can get your car washed, waxed, wiped up, wiped down, shampooed, bedazzled, pimped and pressed, all for like two-hundred bucks? The service even comes with an air freshener of your choice: Cherries Jubilee, Ocean Mist, Spring Meadow or my personal favorite, New Car Smell. I waited, with gas station brand diet soda in hand, while Stewie got the royal treatment. As Stewie took his turn in line on the scary conveyor belt thing, I looked through the little window all, “Wow, these dudes are crazy serious about car washing.” Afterward, a team of like five guys whipping around dirty rags like they were girls’ panties all Magic Mike style, began to hand wax Stewie until he gleamed like the damn gem that he is. What!? I’m being totally serious. When they were done, I walked over with exactly three dollars and sixty-four cents, BECAUSE IT’S 2013 AND WHO CARRIES CASH ANYMORE for their tip jar, and I was all, “Thanks bro, thanks.” As a side note, this bad tipping problem is the same exact thing I remember my gramma doing, you know, just before she started wearing those elastic-waisted sweatpants and stopped shaving her mustache.
Fast forward to today. That New Car Smell air freshener has faded; trust me, this is the least of my troubles. Stewie looks like he was under attack by angry raccoons or maybe even, like, grizzly bears. You know those murderous, oddly human animals that break into mountain cabins and ransack everything just to find some food? And when they don’t find any food they trash the place and urinate everywhere just because they’re freaking pissed? So basically, that’s what Stewie looks like today.
Here’s how it went down. I was looking for a shoe in the back seat when I pulled out two empty grocery bags, six used napkins (ketchup anyone?), a role of toilet paper, at least eight sticks of gum still wrapped but no container in sight, three socks, a jacket, a Taco Bell hot sauce packet that was all, “Ahhhh… we meet again!”, a glass plate, shreds of wrapping paper, a head of a stuffed monkey, a Big Gulp cup, several straws, paper clips, a leaf, an expired debit card of a girl I haven’t seen in a year, exactly three Twizzlers coated in dirt, a brochure on trains, a half eaten muffin, some damp crackers, a book about grizzly bears, a spoon, a horseshoe, an unidentifiable brown substance smashed into the carpet fibers of the floor mat, and a toy wheel. And yes, finally the shoe I had been searching for. Had a BOMB exploded in my car? I think yes. Either that or it would be totally reasonable to assume that my car had been occupied by A) a homeless person or the aforementioned grizzly bear, B) a drug addict or, (dun dun dunnnnn) C) a two and a half year old and his friends.
I should be ashamed, terribly, awfully ashamed, since it’s only been one week since Stewie’s two-hundred dollar date at the car wash. But I’m not. Not even a little.