Moron Squared

They really are morons, the guys (or gals) who keep breaking into my car.

They did it again last Thursday night. It's laughable, really. The last time they got my briefcase (which had a bunch of relatively worthless paper [mostly stuff I'd written], and a few books; nothing fencible), and half the face of my stereo.

Which, incidentally, has forced me to sing to myself during my interminable commute (apparently that half stereo face that the morons ended up with was a pretty vital part; the thing hasn't worked since). I'm kinda getting tired of hearing myself.

I've even started writing creepy songs (pointless songs, really; about slug bugs and big rigs and rubber tires strewn about the interstate). Other drivers have started to steer clear.

But the morons broke into my car again, and guess what they took? The rest of the stereo (which incidentally is destined never to function again; it's pretty much a given). That's it. Nothing else. It's almost like it's a source of twisted professional pride. They were so angry that they could only get 1/2 the stereo last time that they had to come back and prove that they could get the rest.

Which makes for two pieces of stereo that, even together, will never work again.

Bravo to them.

At least they didn't break my window again.

They did, on the other hand, twist off these two little metal pronia's (as my father would call them; the implied definition is: pronia -noun: a little thing for which there is no other acknowledged name, or the name of which has been momentarily forgotten. Example: "Hey PJ; hurry up and bring me that little pronia wouldja?"). I have no idea what they are, and until this morning, I didn't know that they served any practical purpose. They're on the leading edge of the front door windows (both driver and passenger door windows). They just kinda sit there, riding the border between that thin rubber piece and the glass of the window.

But, goodness, are they ever missed.

Apparently, they are used to maintain the driver's sanity. Because without them it sounds as though all the lost souls from a thousand generations are shrieking at the top of their collective inhuman lungs, directly in my ear.

Or maybe like Hurricane Rita has landed in my passenger seat. It's enough to drive you crazy.

Literally.

I'm nearly crazy now (having just entertained the crying souls and the Category 4 tropical storm for the last hour). I feel like one of those rats that you see in those PETA movies; the ones that the researchers have hopped up on crank (or some other psychotropic drug), and then stuck in an industrial strength fish tank. The rats sit there, glassy-eyed, for a while, then commence to flopping about, smacking their bodies against the glass, eyes wide, teeth bared.

Driving in my car at 80 mph down the interstate makes me feel like that. I can't think straight. I jitter, and twitch. I mutter and slobber. I tear at my hair.

Stinkin' morons.

Plus I can't hear myself sing.