RESURRECT DEAD ON PLANET JUPiTER

this thing is a piece of crap

On days when I don’t have the time or inclination to post, I regurgitate posts from my career at epinions.com. There I wrote phony product reviews under the handle “liberator76.” My persona there was far more popular than this one here. This review for a Yugo convertible racked up 33 comments:

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When my job as a stack attendant at Borders Books International transferred me from center city Philadelphia to the main warehouse out in the burbs, I was faced with a bit of a dilemma. Of course, I had to take the promotion. Finally, my career was taking off. The job offered a raise in the upwards of a dollar an hour. Benefits included a 15% discount on all books, 10% on audio. I was finally going somewhere.

But every blessing comes with a terrible curse. Work kept me out of the house 50-60 hours a week as it was. My then-girlfriend, Cindy had already taken 5 or 6 lovers in my persistent absence. I mean I can’t blame her, I was never around and even when I was I usually just drank until I lost consciousness. I feared that she would leave me altogether if I worked anymore. I had to find a way to spend more time at home.

By bus, getting to my new job would require about 2 and a half hours of transportation a day. I had to take the el to the main terminal and then 2 buses to a spot about a mile from the warehouse. Moving was not an option, as suburban life isn’t for me. I decided to get a car. With the extra .92 an hour, a car was finally feasible. I went down to the corner store and lifted a copy of the �trader times.� In it I found all sorts of cars listed.

That evening I went home, stripped naked, covered myself in peanut oil and vinegar, lit 77 candles, arranging them in a spiral pattern around me. I affixed steel/leather clamps to my eyelids and nipples and induced bile from my bosom into a ceramic pot I had placed at my feet. Removing the clamps and returning to their burlap carryall filled with flour and corn meal, I sat in the center of the room and read through my issue of the Trader Times. Scanning the ads, I realized that most of the cars were all far too expensive.

Then I saw it. When the winter wind whipped through my broken window and into my room, the shadow of several candles converged on the ad of a 1991 Yugo convertible. The price, $112. Now this was a car in my price range! The next day I started my investigation of the owner. Urgbon Molzinvericheznt, was his name. A simple background check showed that his record in the States was clean. Having moved from the former Yugoslavia in 1993 Urgbon had attained his citizenship in 1998. His parents had been killed in the 1999 NATO bombings. For this, an extensive FBI file was available. It seems they considered him a potential security threat and monitored his actions. Later in the day I called Urgbon, from a secure phone in Borders. Urgbon agreed to sell me the Yugo for $100. He said it had about 100,000 miles on it, but was in otherwise good condition.

When I bought the Yugo, I felt great. My first car. And a convertible at that! The classic Eastern European design and engineering made me feel like a genuine piece of neo-Soviet Euro-trash. I slipped on my pair of “Eagle Eye” (as seen on TV) sunglasses, popped down the top and took off for home. I slept easy that night.

The bitter winter wind whipped through my hair as I cruised the King of Prussia Mall parking lot on the way to work the next day. The roof of the Yugo had broken free when I was taking the top down and I couldn’t find a way to reattach it. It was of no concern; I didn’t plan on putting the top up much at all.

On the way home from work, when black smoke started billowing from the floor of the vehicle, I decided I should probably take the car in for a tune-up. The owner of the Jiffy Lube told me that they didn’t repair Yugos and referred me to a European Motors specialist. When I pulled up in the lot, the repairman met me in the lot.

“Is that a Yugo?” He asked enthusiastically.

“Sure is.” I responded proudly.

“Well son of a bitch.” He said, “I didn’t think any of them were still on the road.”

“This one is.” I responded. “Bet you don�t see too much of these babies around, do you?”

“Sure don’t.”

“It’s got some smoke coming out of it and the roof fell off, can you fix it?”

The mechanic burst into hysterical laughter. This lasted for several minutes. He smacked a monkey wrench on the ground, tears streaming down his leathery grease covered face. He sure did look jolly. Like a grease clown. When he finally gained enough composure to speak, he said to me:

“Boy, these are the most unreliable cars in the history of the world. They go on an break down every 5 miles.”

“But can you fix it?” I asked.

“The country they come from hasn’t existed for na’er on a decade… an even if the sanctions was lifted an parts were allowed shipped, the air force’s bombed the Yugo plant. Yugo’s been blown off the face of the earth.”

“Oh.” I said, feeling a little cheated. “Was that in the NATO bombing?”

“Yup. NATO that was the one.”

“Oh.”

That’s where Urgbon�s parents were killed, I thought. they died in the bombing of the Yugo manufacturing plant. It all started to make sense. I had a piece of junk car from an enemy country that no longer existed.

“What can you do with it?” I asked.

“I can sell it for scrap.”

“Oh”

“Can you put rims on it?”

“No. The wheel size is a standard for Yugo only.”

“Oh. Can�t you just use makeshift parts?”

“Nope. Don�t much care to”

With this final revelation, I left. Driving off in my Yugo, the smoke began to seep from various parts of the car. I hit the fan button to try to cool the engine, but smoke, then flame shot from the vents. I tried to stop the car, but the brakes failed. I pulled the emergency brake clear off. I decided to jump for it. Aiming the car at a brick wall, so as to avoid pedestrian injury, I leapt from the car, covering my face and rolling to a stop. The Yugo drifted slowly into the wall, completely engulfed in flame. It tried to blow up, but even failed at that. The gas cap blew off and a flaccid shot of smoke emerged from the valve. I watched the car smolder slowly, shaking my head in disgust.

I guess I always have my degree in computer programming to fall back on. I’m quitting Borders altogether and getting a job in that field. That way I can buy a fucking Mercedes. As for Cindy, she can go to hell. It’s time I take charge!