Hey, Motor-vators! This is the guy who played Van He’llsing on the show, Van Pires. Since IMDB didn’t see fit to include my name with the rest of the cast, and due to the fact that I suffered a severe concussion on the set when the Journey Escape arcade machine mounted to my character’s trash wall fell off and pinned my head to the concrete floor, I have no recollection of my real name or former personality. Rev-ical!
You know, since my severe head trauma, I’ve been roaming the streets of Columbus, Ohio, looking at cars and waiting for them to transform back into people that can tolerate my company long enough for me to mistake their kindness as genuine friendship. But, in the process, I’ve discovered something else: that car-shaped humans are frustrating the seemingly normal humans when they get inside of them by going slow! I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been walking down the interstate to find some blown tire retreads to cook my damp Red Baron French bread pizza over, and I’ve seen someone inside a car person, slamming on the steering wheel/femur bone of a Van Pire, cursing at full volume about the lack of speed they are currently attaining, while spitting coffee and shaving cream all over the dashboard/lower back. I’ve followed the cars, running as quickly as my filthy Bugle Boys with more patches than denim will allow and tried reasoning with the car as it speeds along, giving it exhortation and encouragement to keep fighting the good fight against the evil Count Truckula, but I’m only met with disgusted glances and typically I forget where I am and start running into oncoming traffic. But those days are over, thanks to this new product that I came up with in my cousin’s garage while he was away on a business trip: Car-A-Bunga!!
Often the driving humans, or as I call them “Pre-Pires”, those who have not realized their potential to morph their fleshly bodies into mid-90’s convertible or sedan, do not realize the fact that they are driving one of their own, and as a result, do not give the car the nourishment and companionship it deserves. Car-A-Bunga changes that by giving them both in one convenient package.
This is how it works: I simply come over to your house/apartment at night, open the gas tank/mouth/anus of the car man/woman, and pour this wonderful solution I call Car Juice into our four-wheeled friend. What’s in the juice, you’re no doubt asking as you reach for your flip Nokia phone? Well, I’m not going to be at the pay phone I’m giving you the number to at the end of this article until this evening when that Chinese place dumps their Lo Mein into the dumpster into a freshly opened Lavender-scented Glad trash bag (us street rockers call that a “General Tso’s Sack of Flacid Elephant Tusks”), so I’m going to tell you what that is for your consideration:
-That Kool-Aid that turns from blue to red.
-Motor oil from my cousin’s garage that he was just keeping in a tray.
-General Tso’s Sack of Flacid Elephant Tusks run-off.
-Glade Rain Storm plug-in replacement oil.
I get that boiling in my retread fire and pour that right into this Nehi Peach bottle and these syringes. But syringes?! You’ve not doubt dropped your $17 Starbucks Triple Pumpkin Caramel Mocha Venti all over your white Chinos before your big investment holders meet and greet. That’s the second part to Car-A-Bunga.
Pre-Pires don’t realize that Van Pires hate closed windows, as much as cats hate being wrapped in a soaking wet child’s blanket and thrown into a Thursday night dumpster fire (behind the Rally’s off of MLK Jr. Dr, is anyone is interested). So, I break the window with my bare fist, climb in, and give your car it’s second dose right in the seat/inner thigh. This ensures even coverage through the cars “swervous system™”, and ensures maximum speeds from your ride. Pretty soon, you’ll be getting top performance from your mancar, and as a result, the two of you will bond on a emotional level you’ve never experienced with a thing you sit in, because really, it’s some 17-year old girl who is in agony because her spleen is now a crankshaft forever.
If you’re interested in purchasing Car-A-Bunga, please call the pay phone below between the time when Maury Povich ends and the sun sets behind the McCoy Building. If I don’t answer, feel free to blow a dog whistle while walking down East Broad St. I’ll come sauntering, casually eating a sack of cornmeal. Carry the money in your left pocket and pull it out with your right. I will lower the cornmeal DO NOT LOOK ME IN THE EYE and you can slide the money into my cornmeal sack. I prefer the currency be in Susan B. Anthony coins, as they provide me the needed heft to maim my blanket cats.