Shinto the Pinto

Shinto the Pinto was the nicest car anyone could ever reasonably hope to meet. He drove at reasonable speeds, signaled for turns, and hardly ever ran down baby carriages on the sidewalk merely for sport. His interior smelled like a freshly unwrapped deodorant tree, and his seat covers were refreshingly free of diarrhea stains. But still, nobody liked Shinto.

The problem was, Japanese cars had a reputation for reliability. Everybody knew you could trust a Japanese car to get you from the pig roast to the methadone clinic with no problems whatsoever. No biplane noises coming from the engine, no carbon monoxide pouring through the air vents, and no busted-out seat springs stabbing you in the ass while you drive. Life was good in a Japanese car. Unfortunately for Shinto, all of the other Japanese cars out there were Hondas and Toyotas and Nissans and they generally lived up to the stereotype, driving long hours without giving their owners a lick of trouble. Shinto was the only Japanese car anyone had ever heard of who also happened to be a Pinto, the gold standard for shitty, unreliable cars for years.

If he had been an American Pinto, nobody would have thought twice about the fact that he never ran for more than ten minutes without overheating, or the way his brakes squealed like pterodactyls whenever the pedal was touched. But everyone could tell from Shinto's accent that he was Japanese, and that's where things failed to add up.

Whenever his tires wobbled or his windshield wipers flew off in the rain, leaving the metal arms to drag across the windshield and dig grooves into the glass, people thought Shinto was just messing around or being lazy. Whenever he idled hard enough to make the cars next to him at traffic lights shake, people looked down their nose at Shinto and shook their heads. He was seen as an incredible fuck-up who couldn't do anything right, especially not being a proper Japanese car.

Kids from around the neighborhood would sneak up behind Shinto and bash his rear bumper with sledgehammers on an almost daily basis, none of them believing that Shinto really had as fragile and poorly-located gas tank as he claimed. People of all ages laughed and called him a hypochondriac when he pleaded with them to stop smashing into him from behind, claiming that even a moderate rear impact could result in his fuel tank rupturing and engulfing his entire body in a ball of flames, while his passengers would be trapped inside by his ineptly designed doors. "Suuuure Shinto," they'd say, rolling their eyes and twirling their fingers in the crazy motion around their ears.

Things just got worse and worse for Shinto, and eventually everyone started calling him "Shitbox" instead of Shinto. Everyone thought that was pretty funny, except of course for Shitbox. I mean Shinto. Then one day, a kid on a bike ran into Shinto from behind and he blew up in the biggest fireball anyone living had ever seen. There was a story about it in the paper and a picture of the kid's shoe stuck in a tree. Everyone learned an important lesson that day: that you can't judge a book by it's cover, or by its nationality. But you can judge a car by it's name and for the love of God, don't follow a Pinto too close or even bump into it with your shopping cart at the grocery store. Good lord, if that isn't a recipe to have your ass blown out through the soles of your shoes, then I don't know what is.

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