Omen Tracking

It is rainy, and everything smells like rotting worms. I am highly annoyed at the world today, and by “world” I mean:

• the people who think it is a good idea to bring their rampaging children to the grocery store,

• the Toyota Corporation,

• and the fortyish African-American woman wearing funny glasses and driving a white Pontiac Grand Prix, who rear-ended my car this afternoon on Martin Luther King, Junior Boulevard.

Nothing was damaged but my soul and the back bumper of my Mazda hatchback, the Mazda hatchback I am currently attempting to trade in for a Toyota Prius, the Mazda hatchback whose value just plummeted two thousand dollars thanks to the events of this afternoon on Martin Luther King, Junior Boulevard.

Because I am an intelligent, rational person of science, I have come to the conclusion that the Universe is trying to send me a secret message—an omen, if you will, of future events. Sometimes, I wish the Universe would sit down and write me a nice letter on engraved stationery because I am getting tired of these mysterious codes. I still don’t know why my neighborhood is awash in black cats, for example. And what was with the banana peel in our flower pot?

Now I have this to worry over. Universe, are you making it difficult for me to trade in my car because you think I should not trade it in? Are you employing a fortyish African-American woman in a white Pontiac Grand Prix to tell me that my new Toyota Prius will bring heartache and woe along with a huge increase in fuel efficiency? Is this your way of saying that the impending oil crisis is a cruel liberal hoax?

Or do you just think I don’t deserve nice things?

And so, sweet readers, I use my soapbox today to scientifically record this omen for future analysis. If I keep the Mazda hatchback and it gets transformed by cosmic radiation into a car-shaped pile of platinum, leaving me rich rich rich beyond my wildest dreams . . . or if I go for the Prius and the hybrid electrical system goes haywire and zaps me into a pile of dust . . .

Then the Universe gets to say, “I told you so, dumbass.”

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