They Don't Call it a Blood Drive for Nothing

In the movies, whenever a guy's driving a convertible there's always some honeyed blonde sitting in the passenger seat in a tennis outfit or something, without fail. I'm serious, you start to think the girl comes with the car or maybe they just hang out on street corners waiting for some random guy in a convertible to pull up. A pretty sweet gig if you can get it, that is unless you get picked up by the guy from that Outrun game and you're destined to fly out of the car and tumble up the road again and again.

I decided to check out this theory by test-driving a convertible last weekend, and I'll be damned if it didn't sort of work, except the blonde was a seven-foot-tall transvestite from Yugoslavia. If you've ever wondered what kind of person just hops into a stranger's car uninvited, well there's your answer.

To be honest I didn't get to know Unga all that well since after about thirty seconds she saw some guy on the sidewalk who owed her money, and she leapt out of the moving car at a full tackle. If they ever need to update the dictionary picture illustrating the word "surprise," they don't need to search any further than the look on that dude's face when Unga broadsided him at forty-five miles an hour. To be honest I don't know what picture they're using now, but unless it's the silhouette of that chick's dong from The Crying Game, it could probably stand an update.

After that there was a minor hassle at the dealership when I returned the car with a mariachi band in the back seat. You'd think I'd be charging them for that kind of shit, since trust me it's not easy getting a mariachi band delivered in the city at that time of day. Those guys could have done a lot for the dealership's business, since they knew how to play "Slow Ride" and everything.

Mainly I think they were just pissed because I ditched the dealership lackey they sent to tag along for the ride, as if I'm the one who made the car too small for a mariachi band, a seven-foot-tall Eastern European drag queen and an asthmatic dealership goon to fit in all at once. I even went out of my way to tell them which block we let him off at, though nobody could recall if he rolled to the left or the right.

Needless to say, the Omar Bricks car search continues. In the last week I've weeded out quite a few of the pretenders from the field, and am currently leaning towards either a truck, a dune buggy, or a really big truck with a dune buggy in the back. I figure this would be the best of both worlds, because good luck to the cop trying to give me a speeding ticket when the truck's on cruise control and I'm dune buggying out the back in the opposite direction. I don't think even Burt Reynolds ever thought of that one.

You can tell they don't design many of these cars with Omar Bricks in mind, because none of them indicate your speed in reverse. And that's just bullshit. You think you can shine the law just because you're driving with one arm wrapped around the passenger seat and your head craned way around to the back window? Well good, but you still need the proper instrumentation to give your story detail later.

I actually got turned down for a test drive at one dealership the other day, because the dude was freaked out by the shirt I was wearing from the commune's third annual Blood Drive. That's what seemed to bother him anyway, the thought of handing over the car keys to some guy wearing a shirt that said BLOOD DRIVE in big red letters. And truth be told, there was some blood on the shirt, but I explained to the guy that was old blood from the charitable Blood Drive, not evidence of some bloody test drive from earlier in the day, so no worries. Come to think of it, he did kind of act weirded out after I asked if the Malibu could pull a sleigh, so maybe it was just the whole situation that smelled like a lawsuit to him. I can't blame the guy really, I probably wouldn't have turned over my keys to a dude with windshield glass in his hair, either.

Besides, if I decide I really need to test-drive a Chevy I can always go back next week dressed as the Tin Man or Charles Manson or something, the costume stores always have some bitchin' sales after Halloween is over. Bricks out.

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