'straightenin' the curves, flattenin' the hills'

so the mini was transported to the dealer today for about $3,000 worth of repairs following last week's interstate massacre, and the friendly folks at enterprise rental hooked me up with a 2007 dodge charger. a complete pimp car.

oh that's right, baby! i'm kicking it out dukes of hazzard style! way to catch on! i'm makin' my way, the only way i know how.

and what way is that, you may ask?

oh, you know. sing it with me....

"that's just a little bit more than the law will allow"

nice. very nice. and quite impressive, i must say, for seriously, i freakin' hated the "dukes of hazzard." it sucked. and i'm not just saying that because i'm a girl.

a girl who pretended she was daisy duke for a little bit today, but i digress.

oh ok, i may have called a few people "enos," too. strictly because i like the way it sounds. especially when coupled with "aw shucks. i think a little something bounced up into my undercarriage."

as the day wore on and i got a bit more comfortable with my ride (and ok, i got a little tired of yelling out "roscooooe!"), i totally thought this bad ass piece of steel (give me a break. i drive a minivan, for cripe's sake. a rickshaw pulled by a peasant boy would be more bad ass than the standard issue grand caravan) was much better suited for gangsta work.

why?

because honestly, this car's pimped out little windows makes me feel like i should be driving in slow motion down some seedy industrial ethnic neighborhood while some sorrowful opera serves as the only atmosphere in the soundtrack. you'd see my guy, johnny "the weasel" mcmurtrey, glance over at me. then, with one hand on the wheel and one eye on the landscape, he'd pull me close for a passionate kiss and then say, "doooz ya thing, doll face!"

"anything for you, johnny," i'd sigh while reaching under the seat for the bean shooter that i'd poke out the tiny window, bonnie and clyde style, and blow down the poor stoolie who fingered us to the coppers. why, i'd fit him for a chicago overcoat, i would.

"i always knews you's was a bad apple, hot lips "the tart" mcalister!" the boob would gurgle back at me, shaking his boney fist in one last moment of defiance before his blank eyes were left gazing skyward.

"ways to go, baby," johnny would say. "youz the best."

"let's go tighten the screws on those lugs down by the river," i'd say, adrenaline pumping as i wiped away a drop of blood from my pale cheek. a crimson pearl that resembles a tear, mind you, thus serving as a metaphor for my life on the lam.

you gotta wonder about me sometime, eh? that i can come up with all this in what amounts to two 20 minute car trips daily?

the curse of a pent-up writer, my friends.

tomorrow, anyone with the name "tupac" or "biggie" should really consider staying inside. because me? i could so be taking the wheel wednesday morning as "hott wraxx fantastic," laying down beats that are deadly en route to story time at the library.