My Wife Has A REALLY SMALL Compact Car

Recently I had the “pleasure” of riding shotgun in Mrs. Nickels’ car.

Now, if you are wondering why I put quotation marks around the word “pleasure” in the previous sentence, it is because the word “pleasure” was written with facetious intent. Trust me, there is nothing “pleasurable” about being inside the car of one Mrs. Nickels.

Allow me to explain.

I am 6’ 2” tall. Mrs. Nickels, on the other hand, is 5 foot something or other. And to let you know, her height inches of “something or other” is on the low end of the ruler (the very low end.) Now, I’m not SAYING my wife is short (I can WRITE it, sure, but I can never SAY it out loud), but when we took our kids to Disneyland when they were little, unless she wore heels, she wasn’t tall enough to ride on half the attractions in the park.

Now, with that in mind, can you imagine what her car is like? And to make matters worse, she keeps not only the driver’s seat all the way up (so she can reach the pedals), but she also keeps THE PASSENGER SEAT up as well! What is up with that?

In fact, one day I did ask her why she kept BOTH seats up and she basically said the following: “Nonya.” (Pronounced “None-Ya”)

In the Nickels’ household, sometimes brevity is essential to not only getting your point across but given how the answer was given, it also warns you that you really shouldn’t explore this topic any further. Hense, the “Nonya” response.

Oh, and for those playing at home, “Nonya” stands for “None Of Your Business.” Trust me, the way Mrs. Nickels said it, I learned to back away, slowly, very slowly, from the topic.

So anyway, anytime I have something to do with Mrs. Nickels’ car, I keep hearing this strange song go through my head. I know that I know what the song is, but I can’t quite put my finger on where I actually heard it or even what it is called. But thanks to technology, all that has changed.

After another horrifying experience of trying to get in and out of what I call “The Clown Car of Death”, I sprint to my home office (Which I sometimes call “The Death Star”), power up my black laptop (apply named “Darth”) and call upon The Dark Side (do a Google search) for this particularly haunting song.

It appears that Mrs. Nickels’ “Clown Car of Death” was a memory trigger. For you see the song I was thinking about every time I get in and out of her car is the classic circus music called Entry of the Gladiators or as it’s sometimes called Thunder and Blaze.

I think the reason I hear this song when I try to squeeze myself into a space that is barely big enough for a hunchbacked hamster, is that I remember as a kid seeing this tiny car at the circus. Once the car was parked in the center ring, it stopped and like 57 clowns somehow, (I personally think they were in league with Satan), climb out of this car and immediately start dousing the audience with seltzer water.

But you see what I mean. There has to be something inherently evil for filling grown people, regardless if they are wearing clown makeup and clothes that look remarkably like you see the players wear on the PGA Tour, to climb out of such a small space and become normally functioning members of society. It just doesn’t make sense!

So, in my search for truth, justice, and tacos, I will continue to explore this blatant disregard of the laws of physics and keep you informed of my developments. Now, if you will excuse me, I think I left my spleen under the passenger seat of her car. I’m not going in after it. No way! I’ve hired an expert to get it for me. His credentials are impeccable. He’s a hamster that used to work as a bell ringer at Norte Dame.

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