It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.
It is also a truth universally acknowledged that anytime I take my car to the mechanic, it will immediately behave as if it had just that moment rolled pristine and sparkly from the factory floor.
Any moans, grunts, taps, gurgles, or shudders will be non-existent, and it will run as smoothly as a brand new paint job on a baby car’s bum.
In vain will I coax it to repeat whatever dire sounds or smells drove me panicking to the mechanic in the first place. I will kick the tires, rev the engine, slam on the brakes, and squeal out of the parking lot in an attempt to force my car to recreate its miscreant behavior.
My car will behave as docilely as a well-fed kitten in a spot of sun, purring and humming as the mechanic shifts through its gears.
Determining that my car is not going to cooperate, no matter what I do, I will begin to describe the problem.
“It’s making a weird sound.”
“What kind of sound?” the mechanic will ask helpfully.
“It sounds like a baby kangaroo stuck in a blender,” or “It sounds like someone rolling backwards over a gramophone playing Beatles music,” or “it sounds like my dishwasher when a fork gets stuck in the water jet.”
Sensing he doesn’t understand my perfectly logical explanation, I’ll try to imitate the sound.
“It’s sort of a: ‘grrrrrrmmmmm-ack-ack-ack-rrrrrrr-ch-ch-ch-ch…GUH!’ and then it shakes like this.”
I’ll start to demonstrate, but then I’ll realize that everyone in the shop is slowly backing away from me.
“Uh…yeah, lady. Um. If it starts doing that again, you bring it back, ok? Bye!”
Sighing, I will climb dejectedly back into my smug little car and drive away.
“You’d better behave yourself, you little faker,” I mumble.
And it will…for about half a mile.
If this thing weren’t so dang expensive, I would drive it off a cliff.