Let's Talk About Benito Mussolini

I got bored with yesterday's topic. I might get unbored, but for now we're moving on.

Let me tell you a story about my van and the people involved with making my van one of the most inexplicably fucktacular pieces of machinery in the history of man.

I got my first car back in high school. It was a Chrysler Town & Country (is there a dumber name for a car? It might as well be called the Chrysler Cigar Aficionado) -- I forget the year. It was champagne-colored because it was the only one on the lot that I could have immediately instead of waiting upward of two months for some factory to ship it to Texas. The car was fine, really. I had some good memories in that car. Making out in the back seat (it happened once or twice, I swear to 8lb, 6oz Baby Jesus), almost fucking killing someone in a Chili's parking lot, and driving with the hydraulics broken, making every speed bump a perilous crapshoot. It served me well for the most part. I can't recall a moment when the ramp failed. It was clanky and squeaky and was definitely an eyesore, but it was my eyesore.

The car just required too much maintenance for me. After a few years I decided I wanted a smoother ride -- a car that was less of a hassle. So I "upgraded" to a Toyota Sienna, a move that I thought got me closer to having a Lexus. Stupid. I know. Just because they share a same parent company doesn't mean they both make cars that can suck your dick while making your favorite beverage McGyver-style using pocket lint and antifreeze.

Duh.

I'm being unfair. The car itself is probably just fine. It's the conversion of the car into a "Braun Rampvan" that's turned the universe on its head and penetrated its earhole.

The factory used to be in Arizona, where they presumably churned out buttery-smooth car after buttery-smooth car, but they had to close that factory down I'm sure because of some kind of child labor violation or kiddie sex dungeon scandal. Regardless, they opened up shop in Indiana the week I decided to get a new car.

I'm sure this is how it went over there in Indiana.

Supervisor: Oh hey, we just got an order in for an 06 Sienna with a side ramp conversion.
Plant Worker: But we just opened up shop!
S: So?
PW: I had plans to take it easy this week and worship Benito Mussolini in my spare time.
S: Oh yeah? I hear great things about this Benito Mussolini guy.
PW: Yeah, he was a totally great guy -- really misunderstood.
S: Great, let's go kill some sugar gliders and worship Mussolini together.
PW: Can we round up some heroin get some tranny hookers first?
S: I thought you'd never ask!
PW: We'll leave the malevolent, autistic badger here to build that stupid Sienna Rampvan!
S: And how!

Just speculating. I think I'm right, though. This is all evidenced by the fact that my ramp works 46% of the time, which, if you're figuring this out at home, means I can't go fucking anywhere 54% of the time. I'll put on my "EQUAL RIGHTS FOR CRIPPLES" hat here for a second and say that we have a fucking right to be independent people if we have the physical means to do so. The physical means, in my case, are a functional vehicle and wheelchair ramp.

If this is too much to ask, then tell me. Really. I mean it. Has the technology that has given us Playstations, rocket ships, iPhones, pocket pussies, Bose stereo equipment, GPS systems, robots that perform surgery, and man-made black holes from Switzerland really left wheelchair ramp cars in the dust? Have we forgotten the little people here? The little crippled people?

Hell, years ago I was thinking how cool it'd be to have a hoverchair or something like that. But now, I find myself begging, begging, for a car that has a ramp that lowers and then raises again. It's a fucking Erector Set in a car. Ya Ya from The Sandlot could build a fucking Rampvan. Why can't these people in Indiana do the same thing?

It doesn't help that no one knows what the fuck to do with it. Everyone who touches it says they fix it. They don't. I mean today was a great example. They were super nice in good ol' Hutto, but Little Bill (there's a Big Bill, FYI) got the ramp to work fifteen consecutive times and told me he found no problems. "I just reset the system," he said. Thanks, Little Bill.

I then told him that I just knew that the second I got home it would break again.

And folks, it was one of those things...one of those things where I said something out of amusement rather than actual clairvoyance. I had the confidence that "resetting" the system would fix things. Hell, the fuckos in Mesquite replaced the whole engine days ago, so I thought that was it. Just reset the new engine and I'll be golden.

Little Bill and I had a fantastic laugh over the idea that it would break again and I was on my merry way back to Austin.

And I got home. I got home and decided to go out for a ride. Decided to go out to the bank, maybe swing by Best Buy to see if they have Mario Kart for Wii, who knows? Big day. Hell, it's my birthday, I figured I should treat myself to a DVD or a sandwich or something. But nooooooo.

I'm...I don't know. I don't know how it could be that complicated. I mean I would be a shit engineer. I know that. I don't know anything about it, but honestly, it seems like a pretty simple mechanism. It's a drawbridge. Pea-brained serfs built drawbridges. Are we nothing but pea-brained serfs? I hope not.

So yes, I rambled about my van. If you're not Lauren you probably don't have all the information you need to understand how fucking dumb this is, but hopefully I've filled in enough holes for you.

I'm going to sign off, make some Chicken and Dumplings for birthday dinner, and send one of my BMs to Indiana.



"So Long"
Rilo Kiley