11:30 a.m.

• So along with killing bugs yesterday something else monumental took place at the kkk household. The better half and I had to say goodbye to a longtime friend. This companion was with me during the times in my life when I needed assistance the most. Loved by my niece and nephew, he was always able to make them look forward to that day’s activity. And whenever we thought this mate was down and out, he would always surprise us with more get up and go. Who was this person? My crack-whore sister-in-law? A relative with Alzheimer’s? That crazy neighbor? Nope.

My 1988 Chevy Corsica.

Back in late 1999/early 2000 I was living in Sappy Valley and looking for a used car. The better half and I were using her red cavalier to get around, but I knew with an impending move on the horizon we needed two vehicles. I started looking in Auto Traders and other media outlets with no urgency. Then I got the call from my old man. “Do you want an ’88 Corsica?”

Hmm, I remember a few people from my past with Corsicas and they always seemed reliable. Sure, why not. I know jack shit about automobiles. At least this is better than picking out a vehicle because of its color. So I went back to the Shittsburgh area and got this vehicle for $1500. Go ahead and mock me for over-paying. I don’t know if I did or not. It was an older vehicle but had a bunch of stuff done to it. The guy who owned it got the car for his elderly mother and now she couldn’t drive it and he had no room at his place for another car. I guess I should have checked to see what nursing home he put his mom into, because if it was a rat’s den then maybe the brake-line should have been inspected prior to purchasing.

Eight months went by and this car was running with no problems. However, I wasn’t taking it on long trips. Just to work and back – all within a 10-minute drive or so from my second job. And before EricMM starts bitching about carbon footprints and all that shit, I used to walk from my one job because the busses didn’t start up that early. It took me more than an hour to walk home, and a bicycle wouldn’t help my impending move. Yes, I was moving from central Pennsylvania to southwestern Ohio. And on that August day I turned in my keys to my Jew-bastard apartment manager-ette, packed the car to the gills with my stuff and headed off to glorious Middletown. During this eight-hour trek I kept thinking to myself “Don’t break down. For the love of God, don’t break down.” And while there were a few times during some steep inclines I got antsy, the Corsica came through.

After I reached Ohio, I was always expecting this car to die, especially when I would make 50-mile round-trips to and from work. Oddly enough, the car not only ran but it ran rather well. Sure it didn’t have the fancy gadgets all the newer models had, but I am NOT a car person. As long as it gets me from Point A to Point B I’m happy. And year in and year out it did just that. OK, so it needed a rebuilt transmission, but whatever. It was old. If you would say to me that you get a 12-year-old car, drive it for 8 years and only have to rebuild the transmission, I’d say that’s a good deal.

Three years have passed and Mrs. kkk and I were getting ready to drive back to Pennsylvania. Once again, we didn’t think this car had it in him for a similar packed-to-the-gills run across state lines, especially since I never bothered to get an Ohio license plate and updated commie emissions tags. (I avoided the law for three years with Pennsylvania plates and a Temporary registration sticker.) But we were proven wrong for a second time. Now in Pennsylvania we thought for sure this relic would finally call it a day, especially since we never really bothered to maintain the upkeep. But once again we were proven wrong. Sure this automobile could no longer make the everyday work commute through rush-hour traffic, but we didn’t ask him to do that. Need to go to the local grocery store for a gallon of milk? He was there. Have the urge to do some Christmas shopping but the better half has the other car? He was there. Desire the pleasures of some ladies of the evening by making a stop to a Shittsburgh street corner? Hell no. I wasn’t getting no jammy juice on the red velvet interior.

Fast forward to the Summer of 2006. Mrs. kkk was in-between jobs and spent the summer working at a local pizza place and babysitting her niece and nephew. Who was there every morning when she had to arrive at her brother’s house at 6 a.m.? Who was there when it was time to take the kids to their dozen-plus summer activities? Who was there to navigate those crater-filled backroads? You guessed it. Not the 2004 Blue Caviler. That was taking me to my job. But instead, as my nephew-in-law dubbed him, Crappy the White Car.

Why was my Corsica called Crappy the White Car by a kid who will probably make more as a college intern than I do right now? Because while Crappy could still get you from Point A to Point B he had some … issues. First off, the passenger-side door couldn’t open. That was the case for years. I didn’t care. Hey, I figured if someone wanted to carjack me I had a 1 in 4 chance of getting away right off the bat. Then there was the horn issue. One day I was using Crappy for a trek in Shittsburgh due to a work-related issue and the Caviler was already in use. I knew this would be a risk, considering I it was mid-morning and I knew traffic would be stop-and-go. I was right, especially since every other business in Oakland had its vending deliver trucks clogging up the right-hand lanes. Crappy didn’t take too kindly to this and after about 40 minutes of this I was got pissed and hit the steering wheel. This in turn caused the horn to blare nonstop. For several blocks. God only knows what the poor female motorist in front of me was thinking. I tried to let her know that I wasn’t honking at her, rather Crappy was just going off on his own. But I think I did more harm than good because when observed from a distance I think my body language looked more like limbs flailing about in rage. How did I solve the case of the blaring horn? I grabbed the horn panel and yanked something out of place. I thought that would work and it did. For about two miles. Then it started again and I yanked something else. That was that. Or so I thought.

Fast forward to Mrs. kkk’s stint as Aunt Nanny. On one of her trips with the kids to summer camp I guess the horn went off on its own, much to the delight of the niece and nephew, who found the whole thing funny as hell. Couple this with all the amenities of stalling out, no heat or air conditioning, a clock radio that we couldn’t properly set, speakers that were blown out and bellowed out more static than music, peeling paint from all sides, missing knobs, a cracked dashboard from another time I made a this-car-will-overheat-because-of-this-goddamn-traffic back in 2002 (man I-75 was a bitch; thank God I found that back road route to work in Ohio), a crack in the windshield that was there when I first bought Crappy and a gas cap that was hanging on by a thread and you have in the eyes of a 9-year-old the coolest car on the planet. These two kids, particularly the nephew, were OBSESSED with this car. They actually preferred riding in Crappy than our ’04 Caviler or any of the trucks/vans their parents owned. Even earlier this year when the better half was picking the kids up for some function she was asked if they were going to be “riding in style,” a question that was often asked by my nephew whenever he learned Aunt kkk would be driving them somewhere. The nephew even wrote book about his experience during that summer with Crappy the White Car. (Don’t laugh. This 9-year-old was the only one among us who knew how to fix the time on the clock radio. For almost 5 years Crappy was 40 minutes off in time – 1 hours and 40 minutes when clocks had to be adjusted.)

But all things don’t last. After this past winter Crappy decided enough was enough and decided to call it a day. We think it’s the starter but frankly it just doesn’t matter at this point. For months he had been taking up space in the garage until one of us finally got the desire to call one of those tow-away-for-charity organizations. And yesterday that big flatbed in the sky took Crappy away for good.

Crappy the White Car (1988-2008)

The garage just won’t look the same. … Oh who the hell am I kidding? Now until we get a second car, which won’t be until this ’04 Caviler becomes the New Crappy, we won’t need to scrape ice off the windows every winter. But couldn’t the garage be spinning just a little bit? Maybe. But that could be because of the exhaust Crappy would always spew out.