Jesus, this guy. I only wanted a ride to the temp agency, and he was all, "sure, I got a sweet set of wheels in the parking lot." So after I finish up my application for the Donut Hut -- fucking powdered sugar in my hair, I'm not taking this hat off all day now -- we go out to the lot, and it's like, it's his GRANDPA's car right there, a Packard or some shit. The seats are made of red leather and they squeak like I've farted when I get in, and there's cigarette burns on the edge of one seat, it looks a little like a bit of melted wax or black gum, and the carpet's got dirt and leaves ground into it, and the glove box keeps banging open on my knee -- dude, I bruise easily, howsabout fixing that? -- and there's handbills in there from, like, the '70s. Seriously, I wasn't alive in the '70s, like all that Nixon and Eisenhower and Twiggy bullshit is for the birds. I have no idea who this John Birch guy is on these flyers, and what the deal is with the communists, and the dude driving me now -- did I mention he's barely big enough to see over the wheel, which is like the size of the platter my grandma used to put the turkey on? -- he's all, "yeah, my grandfather was kind of a big deal." And I'm all, what, your grandfather was a carp