V for VenJetta

(You have interesting timing with your comments, EntertainedinIN. And an eerie sort of sixth sense, since I was composing this entry at the very moment I received your comment. Have you considered having that looked at? Or perhaps you’re not psychic at all, but merely stalking me, in which case, would you mind picking up my dry-cleaning while you’re out there? Many hands, and all.)

(Apologies for my recent absence. I’ve had my hands full. Charity work, orphans, baby seals. Forgive me? Excellent, moving on…)



Those of you versed in the varying vagaries of the vexatious VenJetta will be unsurprised to learn that the vehemently venomous vituperation of verbiage you thought you heard vented in the echoing vapors of the atmosphere Friday night was just me, fervidly cursing my vehicle again.

(If you haven’t seen V for Vendetta, you’re only getting half the joke. View this vital video vignette for reference. I’ll vait.)

***

I just wanted to stay home.

I was looking forward to a quiet evening at home Friday night. I vetoed an invitation out with the girls because I had a groove going. I was cozy in my apartment, unwinding from the long week, cranking out some freelance work, and enjoying the fact that I was not at the office. By the time I finished enough work to feel a vague sense of vocational victory, I was ready to vacation on the couch with various videos, including Viggo’s latest vehicle. (No, not really. But Viggo was sort of perfect for that sentence. And I hate Vin Diesel. So.)

I was prepared to veg hardcore. And as everyone knows, you can’t properly veg without Chinese take-out. Voluminous amounts of Chinese take-out. Seriously, vats of it.

I’m relieved I chose not to venture to the Chinese vendor in my PJs, because no sooner had I collected my week’s worth of victuals and returned to my vehicle (I wasn’t in there longer than five minutes!), than the VenJetta had a tantrum.

I turned the ignition key four times to verify the veracity of the vibe I was getting. The VenJetta was vegetative, because it because it had once again confused humor with irony. There was no starter, no engine noises, no (dare I say it?) vroom at all. It was utterly quiet. Then, quite suddenly (as if the VenJetta wanted to make this behavioral vicissitude absolutely apparent), it started to wig out.

The hazard lights went on. Headlights started blinking. The clock started to turn backward. The dome light started to buzz. Strange clicking noises vibrated from beneath the dashboard veneer. I was entirely certain this was the end of my life and silently apologized to all the vulnerable patrons in the Chinese restaurant that were going to be killed in the explosion. I had visions of them opening their fortune cookies and seeing STOP, DROP, AND ROLL! in large letters, just above their lucky numbers.

When the explosion didn’t come, I started to push things. When I hit the brake, the dome light stopped buzzing. When I popped the clutch, the dashboard ceased clicking. Eventually, and with some experimentation, I was able to silence the vociferous vehicle.

Taking stock of its vacillating vital signs, I diagnosed the VenJetta with yet another electrical problem, the side effects of which were demonic possession.

A phone call to my second family at AAA assured me that a service vehicle would be along eventually to salvage my very last nerve that the VenJetta was so jovially vellicating. “Eventually” turned out to be sometime between “now” and “two hours from now.” Luckily, I had plenty of food.

Over the next hour or so, I sat in my vehicle and gave my cell phone a workout, calling and text messaging the entirety of my address book with...well, with vigor. Periodically, I would pop into the Chinese place for plasticware or napkins or a drink, and the waitstaff voiced their best wishes for my volatile vehicle. (Their best wishes were apparently not sincere enough for them to comp me on the beverage, but whatever.)

When Vic (yes, really) from AAA arrived, I scoffed at his attempts to jump the battery, since clearly this was a much more serious state of affairs, and certainly one that required a priest or something.

When the engine revved to live a few jumped volts later, Vic was very kind about avoiding any “I told you so” about the battery. He kindly voiced his voltage verdict and directed me home to meet with the Battery Guy, who apparently roams the streets of Omaha in the middle of the night, vending car batteries from underneath his trench coat.

Now that the VenJetta was moving again of its own volition, I didn’t much care if Battery Guy had hot Rolexes under the van’s visor. I voluntarily rendezvoused with him in the well-lit parking lot of my apartment complex, where he treated the VenJetta with whatever Battery Guys do and charged me a bunch of money. I did not complain; I did it all with a vivacious smile and volitive gratitude. I was just glad I didn’t have to go the dealer, and that Volkswagen wasn’t vying for my vehicular dollars again. That never ends well.

Alright, so what if it was just a void of voltage in the end, and not the electrical apocalypse I thought it was? I still blame the VenJetta’s vendetta. How else do you explain the Christine-like wig-out? The whole endeavor was just a thinly veiled volley for vantage the vehicle cleverly launched at my sanity. It thinks it has me under its control, all smug in its vehicular virtue. One might argue that it even seems to have monopolized my thoughts and energies, and that its savvy actions have been solely responsible for more than a few hours spent writing about its virtues and thinking up v-words.

But whatever your view of my vapid verbosity, please know that I was the victim in this vicious and vengeful vehicular violation, and the vilification of the VenJetta is neither vacuous nor in vain; it is only via vigilant valuation of the villainous vein that vibrates the very viscera of the vehicle that I can remain validly prepared for the inevitable vertex in the advancement of our relationship: the VenJetta will go one step too far, and I’ll have no other option but to violently beat the vehicle with virtually every blunt object I can lay my little hands on, feeling vindicated with every vigorous blow.

Verily. With...vim.