1998 Toyota Camry
First of all, I don’t want to totally blame the 1998 Toyota Camry for sucking. My parents bought it and they usually buy things that suck. “Caveat emptor” they say in my Latin class (which also sucks). Do you know who Heather Klee is, Toyota? She’s only the finest chick in my high school and a senior and how am I supposed to pick her up to play grab-ass behind the Denny’s when my parents won’t let me use your stupid car because I don’t have a license? So, I snuck out. What’s up! Problem is, the ’98 Camry is equipped with something called a “manual transmission.” WTF? I only made it a block before “The Old Shit Wagon” wheezed, ground to a screeching halt, death-rattled, and dropped a big chunk of metal onto the street and here I am with no date and I’m grounded. And what does that third pedal on the left do? I think you installed one too many. Maybe check on that, too. While you’re busy resolving these issues, I’ll be the asshole riding the bus with the rest of the assholes. Assholes.
So mad I could cut you,
2008 Toyota Prius
Although I enjoy maintaining the moral high ground by driving this eco-friendly roadster, I am at a loss. Nowhere in, on, or near the Prius does there appear to be an Obama bumper sticker. Did you forget it? You didn’t forget the voice-activated navigation system. Or the steering wheel. Or anything else. Please rectify this problem post haste. And although I’ve made a small alteration just to get by, the Dukakis/Ferraro ’88 sticker looks somewhat dated.
1984 Toyota Celica
Toyota, you should be ashamed of yourselves. Thanks to a tragic malfunction in the ’84 Celica’s timing belt, my husband is dead. No, it’s not a problem with connecting the crankshaft and the camshaft, and it has nothing do with the engine valves—I’m talking about experimental love. After removing the timing belt from the bowels of our vehicle, my husband Roger, myself, and the Korean prostitute dispatched ourselves to what we like to call “The Love Dungeon,” i.e., our shed. After Hyun Jung and I secured Roger, dressed in full Napoleonic regalia to an I-beam with the ultimately faulty timing belt, the miniature pony on which he sat spooked and darted off toward freedom, causing my soul mate to asphyxiate under less than erotic circumstances. Why not a safety release, Toyota? Also, when I put the timing belt back on, I think something went awry with the synchronization of the pistons. Every time I turn right, the car vibrates, Hyun Jung and I climax, and the radio plays the “Ding Dong Song” by Günther and the Sunshine Girls until I turn the car off and have a cigarette. My friend Terry said a similar thing happened to her husband, but they couldn’t afford a pony. Point is, it behooves you to look into this. For Roger’s sake.
2010 Toyota FJ Cruiser
Well, here I am all excited about the new Cruiser and what do I get? An unwieldy nuisance that hardly fulfills its role as an off-road juggernaut. Moreover, the high-mounted, double-wishbone front suspension you tout is no match for my ex-wife June and her husband Clint’s magnolia tree. You call this a utility vehicle? Where’s the utility in trying to ram that magnolia into the middle of their living room if contact at a mere 45 m.p.h. pushes the airbag into my face and the FJ Cruiser crumples into an awkward heap at the base of the tree? Is the utility in my having to ask the cuckolding Clint, the teetotaling, tan, and infuriatingly capable Dr. Clint, to reset my nose? I don’t think so. Is the utility in having June uncover the array of gentlemen’s pamphletry I’ve got stashed under my mattress in the rear cargo area? Or indeed that I am living in the FJ Cruiser and not with Winona Ryder in the Hollywood Hills, as I initially told her? I don’t think so.
The gross incompetence displayed by your workers in constructing this abortion of an “off-road” vehicle is dizzying. You’ve got ads with the Cruiser roaring around a rugged Martian surface, but it seems the old magnolia tree at 1673 Ivanhoe is a little too tough for the Cruiser (although I do applaud the rear intuitive parking assist function, which proved instrumental in crushing their tasteless yard gnomes).
P.S. On a quasi-related note, I should mention that the stock tires on the Lexus IS 300 are nearly impossible to slash. Infuriating, and again, embarrassing.
2000 Toyota Tacoma
There are seven cheeseburgers in my glove compartment and one sitting precariously atop the V6. Is this standard? I bought the Tacoma used, so I imagine someone else could have installed this option, but I’m trying to cover my bases here. You see, I love Jesus, but I drink a little.
Santa Fe, NM