Women are always pretty, auto mechanics never are.
Garage mechanics are nomadic. They leave like women beaten once too often. When they do, men limp back to their dealership, prodigal, apprehensive and bruised.
Guys can get through life with one best friend and a mechanic. A woman can’t be a man’s best friend, and neither can a dog. If this reality ruffles women and disappoints dogs, well, they need to suck it up.
Most of us, deep down, wish women were more like cars. We never refer to our cars as “he,” it is always “she.”
I wonder how gay men handle this? I will check Car and Driver Magazine for clarification.
My dad did not load me with advice, but he made this point to me strictly and often as I grew up. “At fifty-thousand miles, you must trade your car in for a new one,” he said. He knew that ruin was built into all cars.
We boys of the fifties and sixties, all had “planned obsolescence,” stuffed into our pockets by our dads.
I think it led inexorably to the high divorce rate of that era. We naturally applied the laws of our fathers to what we loved most, cars and women. Nobody ever explained the difference to us.
Cars and marriages are not complicated if you understand their warranties. At 100,000 miles, you find a good mechanic if you want it to last. At the twentieth wedding anniversary mark in a marriage, you break out the humor that only you two can understand.