Don't Open the Trunk
February 13th, 2002
Lately, I had noticed that my car seemed to be putting on more mileage than I had been driving it. I couldn't understand how. My wife was the only other person with keys to the car but she cannot drive a manual transmission.
I pondered on this for a few weeks and then discovered the cause...
A few nights ago I couldn't sleep because of those bastard clowns playing their circus music obnoxiously loud in my closet, so I tossed and turned all night. I put my pillow over my head but that didn't work. I tried putting my headphones on and listening to music while falling asleep, but that too didn't work. So...I ended up just staring at the ceiling as the minutes and hours went by.
At about 3:30 in the morning, I heard the closet door creak open and the tell-tale sounds of that evil clown giggling. I then heard the jangling of my car keys. A-HA! So they are the ones taking my car - those thieving little jerks!
I got out of bed and ran downstairs to catch them in the act.
Goddamn! They were all over my car and they were getting their greasy hand prints everywhere.
Ahhh! They're getting the pedals all greasy!
What...you it licking it too?!? Goddamn!
Quit messing with my clutch...
Ugh...he has defiled my shifter.
I was stunned. Then, I came to my senses and started screaming for them to get the fuck out of my car.
They scattered into the night when I started yelling at them, back to the closet I could only assume, and I was left with cleaning up their greasy, Keebler-Elf hand prints that were all over the steering wheel, dashboard, shifter and pedals.
DAMMIT! This would explain why my foot kept slipping off of the clutch.
After cleaning the inside of the car, I noticed a trail of miniature hand smudges leading to the trunk. Son of a bitch! I bet they got the trunk all oily with their clown essence. I just knew that they had left some sort of an oily mess in there.
Oh...if only that would have been what I found in the trunk...
COMANCHE!!! You fat, fat cat! Get the hell out of there!
Apparently, Comanche (AKA the nasty cat) had made a pact with the damn clowns. In exchange for not eating them, the clowns would drive him to a 24 hour Arby's every night for cup after delicious cup of Jamocha shakes. His limit was around 15 cups.
This milkshake binging had been going on for about two weeks - about the same time that I noticed the extra mileage on my car. Damn cat! Although, I really couldn't be mad at him. I mean, who could really withstand the magic allure of Jamocha shakes?
I turned my anger back onto the clowns. They were really starting to piss me off.