Misstropolis

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Dude Where’s My Car?!

by Lenore Shannon

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The Department of Homeland Security needs to be alerted, as does the FBI, the CIA and the local police. I have just discovered that among us dwells the most vile and vain of power-mongering creatures, a man who will stop at nothing until he meets his goal of world domination. He must be stopped, no expense spared. His name: Herb Chambers.

(Twenty-five days. They’ve had my car for twenty-five goddamn days.)

Don’t say you haven’t noticed. His unearthly visage is creeping into the most mundane places. He’s begun to star in his own newspaper and television advertisements. His digital voice now answers the phone at his car dealerships. He sat just above the dugout during the ALCS, sporting a Red Sox hat and jacket with the collar turned up. Had it not been for the gleaming set of custom dentures, glowing like the Fenway lights themselves, you might have overlooked him. Sure, the television cameras thought they were trained on Terry Francona, but I know better. Herb’s magnetic pull won over the camera lenses, keeping him in full view. 

(They say parts had to come from Germany, but at this point I could have gone to Germany myself, purchased the parts, taken the Orient Express back to Zurich, spent a few days at a spa, done some hiking in the Alps and returned home in the same amount of time.)

Maybe by next year, Herb will be able to rig the TV cameras so his evil hologram will be on every Red Sox player. Who’s up at bat? Why it’s Herb Chambers. Who’s on first? Herb Chambers. Who sang the National Anthem? Why that was the tenor, Herb Chambers. Who’s the new owner of the Red Sox? Don’t make me say it.

(My car is off warranty, and I’m in a rental. So far, I’ve racked up a bill totaling $1,500 that Chambers motorcars says isn’t their responsibility.)

This man is in the process of eating our country alive, car dealership by car dealership. Walk through a mall parking lot, and look at the license plate frames on all the cars. Nine times out of ten, they’ve got “Herb Chambers” on them. He’s all over the newspapers, all over the television; he even has his own blog. Look at it if you must, but be forewarned - Herb apparently relaxes by boating, presumably listening to the Rolling Stones, listed as his favorite band.

(Last time I was in for service, they stole some contraband that was inadvertently left behind in my glove box. It was good stuff, too.)

It is the act of saying you care about people, and about service, over and over again, that makes me so suspicious, not of Herb’s intentions per se, but more that Herb Chambers is a MARTIAN and has never actually driven anything but a spaceship his whole life.

(A longtime customer I know asked Herb to donate a Mini for an auction for a children’s charity - he initially refused, then relented begrudgingly. “Like pulling your colon out of your ear,” she said, referring to the degree of difficulty in dealing with him.)

Get it through your heads people, before he brainwashes us all into thinking he actually cares about what we drive and how it’s performing. George Bush is fighting a fruitless battle overseas, while the real enemy is at the bar at Mistral, enjoying some steak tartar and a ’57 Bordeaux. Any day now, he’s going to peel off that rubber mask and make his real intentions known. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.