Let's be honest with each other. There's something a little sleazy about pimping out my work on the internet, but I need to get over that. If I'm going to hustle the work, then I've got to hustle the work. Let the hustling begin:

When My Celica Got Smashed

    Look, this is the thing. I don't ordinarily go around setting people's cars on fire, it's not very lady-like, but this asshole brought it on himself.
    So I'm backing out of my space in this gigantic-ass parking lot downtown when Saab 9000S comes tearing around a turn and hits my car. I know you're probably thinking that a faded blue 1985 Celica with no hubcaps isn't much to get excited about, but it's my goddamn car, and it's not like I can buy another one with the big dollars I get at the candle store selling incense to stoned college kids and hippie girls who need to start thinking about taking baths at least once a year.
    So Saab 9000S gets out of his car, and the first thing he does is examine his fender, making a big fucking show out of it, walking back and forth in front of his car, all hunched over, but it's my Celica that has the back all caved in, not to speak of what might have happened to me. I could be dead for all the attention I'm getting.
    After, like, a year, he finally looks at my car. You know how you expect to see a certain look on a guy's face when he's creamed your vehicle, kind of apologetic, or at least concerned? Not him. I bet he was thinking, Man, this is going to mess up my day; I might miss a meeting. This is the point where I got all pissed off. I throw my door open to show Saab 9000S just how pissed off I am, but it bounces back as I'm getting out, and it hits me on my goddamn legs. Now I've got a car all beat to hell, the skin on my legs all torn and bloody, so I say, "Hey, what the fuck?"
    He has the nerve to say, "Excuse me?" as if my language is offensive to him or something, like he's a real delicate flower.
    "I said, 'What the fuck' Suit Boy." I know I'm not exactly being real mature, but maturity is overrated in certain situations, if you ask me.
    "Oh, come on," he says, looking my car up and down real slow, like he's trying to let me know that he thinks my car is a piece of shit. Look, I have no delusions about my little Celica, but I don't need him to remind me that I'm not exactly rolling in style.
    As I stated previously, I'm not real big on setting cars on fire, but I figured I had to do something. The trunk won't open, so I have to fold down the rear seat to reach the half-empty can of lighter fluid I found in the trunk of my car the day that I bought it. I pour the lighter fluid all over his car and go to mine and push in the lighter and wait for it to pop out. At this point, I can see that he's starting to think that he's miscalculated the gravity of the situation, which is kind of cool. When the lighter pops out, I hold it against his windshield, but all the lighter fluid has dried there. Under his car, in the shadow, however, is a different story. There's a real nice puddle there, so I touch the lighter to the ground. I almost set myself on fire, it went up so fast. Oh, shit, I thought, but I tried to act cool. You should have seen the look on his face, though.

Originally, I started the above story when one of my creative writing students asked me what the hell I was talking about when I was failing miserably at explaining tone and voice. You should have seen their confused little faces. I told them that I'd write a model of what I wanted from their next assignment and e-mail that to them.

Don't set cars on fire. Not cool, man, not cool at all.