“The snickersnee is rusted shut, and your borogoves are completely stripped,” Kenny might as well be telling me. When it comes to automotive repair, it’s all jabberwocky to me. All I know is that since South Carolina my beloved Scion xB has been making a disconcerting putt-putt-puttering sound whenever I have my foot on the gas. Which, unfortunately, is most of the time.
But seriously: they had to order something called a donut gasket for my car. I could have sworn he said “donut basket” the first time, but no such luck. I started off at Firestone (“Firestone: charging you $100 to not do anything at all!”), and they referred me to nearby Mufflex, whose name must be said aloud as follows:
I putt-putt-puttered down the Dixie Highway to MUFFLEX!!!, where they very sweetly did something about the problem, or at least started to do so. The car will be fine by tomorrow afternoon with any luck, just in time for me to light out for Alabama. In the meantime I’ve been exploring Hollywood on foot, more on which in a forthcoming post, which has afforded me the opportunity to pester a nun and enjoy some art made of BMX bikes. What did I used to do with my Mondays before this trip?