Monday, July 02, 2007

Worth Repeating

Marsha: So what kind of car did they give you?
Me: It’s a dumb-ass Chevy Impala. We hate it.
Marsha: If I ever got stuck with an Impala, I’d have to nickname it Vlad. Vlad the Impala; just to make it tolerable.

I won't go into all the gory details leading up to that quoted text above. Suffice it to say that I had a recurring issue with my Saturn Vue Hybrid, which is now fixed (the fuel pump needed to be replaced). And while my lovely, red, darling of a vehicle was at the dealer being repaired, Saturn paid for a rental from Enterprise, which was a shitty-ass, silver Chevy Impala.

Awful, awful car. Let me count the ways:

First of all, it smelled weird. I don't know if they used Febreeze or what in there but it had a mildly sickening, sweet smell that kind of made me nauseous. Sort of like "vanillaesque fakey strawberryish."

Second, the key-less entry system did not work. We had to manually unlock and lock all the doors. It was a pain in the ass.

Third, the PNRD123 shift was behind and to the right of the steering wheel, a la the 1978 version of the Chevy Impala. It was tricky, too. Hard to maneuver and wonky, it would get stuck sometimes.

Fourth, the most sensitive breaking system on the planet. In fact, if the brake pedal even sensed that your foot was coming close to it, it would break, thus thrusting you forward into your seatbelt. Couple that with that vomit-inducing smell in the car and you have a real swell driving experience! NOT.

Fifth, where the fuck are the windshield-wiper controls?????????

Sixth, the gas pedal was so unyielding that you need the strength of Methuselah to bear down on it. I mean really. Getting the damn car to accelerate past 20 mph required me to bear down as much weight as I could muster from a seated position.

Seventh, thank CHRIST the headlights were already set on "auto" because I don't think even Stephen Hawking could figure out how to turn them on.

Eighth, even though I had the air-conditioner fan set to release air ONLY to the top of the car (dial was turned to the "head" portion only), it still came out wherever the hell Vlad felt like distributing the cold air. This was particularly annoying on my 40-minute trip to one of my knitting get-togethers, as it poured out cold air right on my right shin. Yes, that's right, my DRIVING LEG. So not only was the tibialis anterior on my right leg pumped like Schwarzenegger's from the resistance of the gas pedal, but it was also frozen solid.

Ninth, because of the way you had to work the brake and gas pedals, i.e., barely touch the brake and alternatively try to STAND UP ON the gas pedal, the driving position in the car was just horrible. After just 10 minutes of driving, my lower back was screaming bloody murder.

Tenth, the radio barely worked. Anytime you can't get a clear-sounding KYW1060 am on your radio, and you live within 50 miles of the city of Philadelphia, then that is one shitty-ass radio.


Marsha Brofka-Berends said...

There's one good thing about Vlad: you got a great story out of the whole experience!

Katie J said...

You are quite funny. Thanks for the Vlad story