Goodbye, Ghost Of War

After running down an errant couch on I-25 with the Ghost of War, the wife and I decided the time was nigh to purchase a new automobile. We first called our credit union to get pre-approved for a loan and were pleased to learn they offered their customers a free auto broker service. This was exactly what I wanted to hear as car salesman rank in character somewhere between necrophiliacs and Rent-A-Center employees to me. The wife and I were referred to a genial gentleman named Gordon. He called to inform of us of an auto inventory showcase they were having the next day and invited us to come down and test drive whatever he had. So we did. He introduced himself and then became scarce and the wife and I spent the rest of the morning speeding new and used whips around the hills near Morrison, Colorado. We fell in love with the 2008 Toyota RAV4, both for the V6 engine and the stellar Consumer Reports ratings (thanks EZ). After discussing the features we were looking for in an automobile with Gordon, he informed us that he would scour the Denver metro area for what we wanted. The next day he called to inform us that he procured a 2008 flint-colored, moonroofed Toyota RAV4 and that he was driving it up to the crib to let us take it for a spin. We loved the damn thing (of course) and two days and fifteen minutes of paperwork later, the wife and I had us a new ride.

I made my final voyage in the Ghost of War yesterday (a youngster in Castle Rock bought her for $500) first to Santiagos for a sack of breakfast burritos and then to the office. She was a steady machine that gave me scant trouble in ten years of hard driving (I work a clutch like a Mexican field hand works a burro). Godspeed, Ghost of War. May all your future rides be down the smoothest of couch-free roads.

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Fuckin’ Jake Jabs

Tonight on our drive down to south Denver for a hockey game, the Ghost of War smashed into an errant sofa on I-25 at about 75 mph (the sofa conveniently lay on the highway less than three hundred feet from Furniture Row). Thanks, Jake Jabs. I am guessing that a new sofa purchaser, unskilled in the art of twine and furniture hauling, dropped that big bastard on the road upon merging and failed to look in their rear view mirror to notice that their load was lost. The sofa lay in the far right lane as we sped along in the far left lane. An eighteen wheeler barreled through said sofa and sent it careening across the highway. The Ghost of War happened it be directly in its wake. I swerved enough to deflect the brunt of the blow, but the old girl still got tagged pretty good. The damage included the passenger side mirror being shattered into oblivion, a large dent on the passenger side door and the passenger side headlight being bashed to pieces. Being as the Ghost of War still gets 35 miles to the gallon and is paid for, I am running her for at least another 100K. I plan on hitting the Yota Yard at lunch tomorrow for some replacement parts as it is close to the office and located directly across the street from the Walnut Room (which makes a mean meatball sandwich). May the parts be with me, indeed.

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East Bound And Down

During my lunch hour I was driving like the Bandit and blew past a Jeffco Sheriff going 20 over the posted speed limit. I heard sirens, looked in the rear view mirror, and the bottom dropped out of my stomach like a Rollie Fingers slider as police lights were practically up my tail pipe. I pulled over and the Jeffco Sheriff walked over to the Ghost of War and motioned for me to roll down the window.

“What seems to be the problem, sir?” I said, trying my best to sound like an innocent little girl holding a bunny rabbit and a stick of cotton candy.
“You were going pretty fast back there. I am going to need your license and registration.”
“Oh. Okay.” I replied, and began fumbling around in my glove box.

He gazed into my eyes and I sensed his bullshit detector jumping like Irish people in a House of Pain video. Without saying a word, he sauntered back to his vehicle and left me assuming that he would return with a speeding ticket and some KY Jelly in order to ass-fuck the fine out of me. Instead, he gave me a warning, handed me back my information, slipped me his card and sent me on my way. Good times, Deputy Pierce, good times.

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14 Hours Of Sleep For Jesus

I was drinking with an ex-coworker and her born-again Christian friend this evening (thankfully the Jesus Freak waited until the ride home to spring the “Christ Is Risen” bit on me) and the following conversation occurred in the Ghost of War on the way home from the bar:

Jesus Freak: So Matt, do you want to go to church with me in the morning?
Me: Um, no. No thanks. No.
Jesus Freak: That is alright because Jesus still loves you.
Me: So let me get this straight. If I go to church Jesus loves me and if I do not go to church Jesus will still love me?
Jesus Freak: Yes. That is correct.
Me: Sounds to me like Jesus wants me to sleep in.

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