A Series of Letters to My Blue 1992 Geo Prism

Dear, My blue 1992 Geo Prism,

Fuck you. You suck.

Love,

Luis Prada

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Dear, My blue 1992 Geo Prism,

Hey, I just want to start off by apologizing for my last letter. It was poorly thought out and written in a moment of rage. I shouldn’t write letters when I’m raging. But I did, and I do, and I’m sorry for that. But you have to understand, you kind of brought it on yourself, Geo.

You see, it was hot outside. The heat index was 102 and you had no air conditioning. Sometimes I think you do this to me because of all the bad things I’ve done to you. I’ve already apologized for those things. Like the time when I left your lights on when I went to work, only to come back and find out that your battery had died. I know, I know, it was a mistake to then lock the keys in the car as I checked the trunk for jumper cables, and I’m really, really, super-duper sorry for having to kick in your backseat from the inside of your trunk (the trunk that doesn’t pull down, mind you. Neither of us is to blame for that. GM is) just so I could get back in you to unlock you. That was fucked up. I mean, I would certainly be pissed if you crawled up my ass and kicked my testicles off from inside of me. It was a series of mistakes that should never have happened in the first place.

I’m sorry. That’s just a general I’m sorry. I’ve done so many bad things to you that I can barely list it all. So it’s an “I’m Sorry” that I hope covers all the bases.

Thanks for reading, Geo!

Love,

Luis Prada

P.S. – Why did you smell like burnt hair and hog fat today?

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Dear, My blue 1992 Geo Prism,

While I am pleased with your basic performance (driving me from A to B), I regret to inform you that your ability to land me females with loose morals and taut vaginas has left me concerned. When we entered this partnership, you and I, it was one based on the mutual understanding of the fact that you are a car and I am (or was, at the time) a budding sexual dynamo capable of pleasuring multiple females multiple times. You, in your current state of disrepair, are acting as though a young human male such as myself could score a totally hot babe on my own without the need or help of an automobile.

This is a false assumption.

As you are well aware, my halitosis is still very much a problem and Dr. Godard seems just as perplexed as ever as to how to rid my mouth of the smell and taste of beaver pelt. (I am also aware of the irony of constantly tasting and smelling beaver, but never actually attaining the euphemistic kind). This already makes the prospect of finding a mate – let alone many of them – much more difficult than it needs to be. But, you see, Geo, this is a personal, physiological problem.

What the fuck is your excuse?

Would you care to explain why your once-brilliant blue paint is fading away to reveal the grayish-white primer below? Are you shedding your skin like a snake? Will I go to open you one morning and discover a blue 1992 Geo Prism-shaped pile of dead skin next to a brand new Dodge Challenger? If that’s what’s going on, then please, tell me. (No, seriously. Tell me. Can cars do that?) If not, then I would suggest you pick your exhaust pipe off the ground, put your door handles back on, and please, for the love of all that is holy, remove the dead squirrels from beneath the passenger side seat. That shit’s gross. Of all the hobbies an automobile can have, why dead squirrel collecting?

Anyway, I hope you feel some shame right now. Every moment my penis remains un-sexed is another moment I don’t change your oil. 23,000 miles is a long way to travel, isn’t it, Geo? I bet you’re getting kind of thirsty, huh? Well, if you want some juice you had better reciprocate, Motherfucker.

Love,

Luis Prada

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Dear, My blue 1992 Geo Prism,

I’m so filled with emotion right now. I want to cry, laugh, smile, and hate, all at the same time. You’re such a sneaky little guy! I had no idea you were planning all that! I can’t believe you remembered my birthday! I loved the taxidermied squirrels!  If only you had told me I wouldn’t have attacked you the way I did in my last letter. I apologize. I was acting a fool!

Ha-Ha! Oh, the great times you, the squirrels and I will have! HA-HA!

Look at us! Laughing through letters like a couple of girly children! Awesome! You’re a car!

Love,

Luis Prada

P.S. – I’m gonna drive you so fucking hard tomorrow!

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Dear, My blue 1992 Geo Prism,

While our joy ride to celebrate my lovely birthday gift was most certainly an enjoyable experience, there were some rather unsavory moments that I feel I must address.

Firstly, I’m none-too-pleased with your cassette deck destroying my Michael Jackson HIStory tape. The squirrels and I were jamming to “Don’t Stop Till You Get Enough” when we were startled by a high-pitched whine, followed by chugging mechanical Gur-dunk, Gur-dunk, Gur-dunk. You had effectively ruined our merriment. I loathe you for that.

Secondly, and I don’t even understand what you were thinking with this one, why did you commit vehicular manslaughter? That man had done no wrong. He looked both ways. He walked when the white glowing hand signaled him to walk. The only crime that he may have committed was the crime of not getting out of the way of a homicidal automobile that has three differently sized tires and a broken passenger side rearview mirror that points to the sky.

I really don’t get you sometimes, Geo. This is serious. You’re going to have to do something about this. I LOVED THAT CASSETTE DECK! It supplied me with many hours of wonderful tuneage – from Burt Bacharach to Linda Ronstadt. I’m so mad about that.

Oh, and that guy you killed? Total W.T.F, bro! That man is dead (at least, I think he is. You can’t get that much height and do that many ragdoll flips without dying a little) and you don’t even care. I know, I know, “But, Luis, you don’t care either!” That’s so beside the point that it’s, like, soooo not even in the realm of the point. The point is about you and about how much you killed that guy. I’m going to guess a lot. You killed him a lot.

I don’t know what other car owners do to punish their cars after two consecutive heinous acts, but I’m going to stop throwing all of my fast food wrappers and cups in to you, see how you like it.

Stern? Yes. Stern, but fair.

Love (but just barely),

Luis Prada

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Dear, My blue 1992 Geo Prism,

As you may already be well aware, we are, at the time of this letter writing, being chased down I-95 by what can only be described as a cavalcade of police vehicles. I can’t see the faces of the officers in hot pursuit of us, but if I could they’d probably be the same face that someone makes when they give you a furious middle finger, or the perturbed face someone makes when you hit them with a car. (Seeing as this is a handwritten letter, you may not have been able to detect the playfully accusatory tone I sauced up the final few words of that sentence with, but trust me, it’s there).

I write this letter to you now with the intent of finding out your plan for escape from this particularly harrowing (and very exciting) chase. We have already blown through the spike strips and we have somehow managed to side-step a few side swipes, and I applaud you for that (I’ve always known you to be a rather nimble little rapscallion!). But the question I now toss to you is, now what?

Canada? No, stopping to fill your belly with gas will only put a premature end to this little battle of motor vehicles.

Killing us all? I wouldn’t even know how to choose from the myriad methods of self eradication! And, by the way, how do you kill dead squirrels? (Any way you can! Ha-Ha! I’m so silly! LoL!!)

I just don’t know! ARGH!!!

Get back to me as soon as you can! I can really use some help here! The cops are getting close and they’re pulling out their shotguns as I write this!

I hope my hand writing is legible.

Love,

Luis Prada

P.S. – Getting shot in the abdomen is the wooooorrrssst!!

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Dear, My blue 1992 Geo Prism,

I guess I’m writing this final letter just to give myself a sense of closure, because by the time I’ve dotted the I’s and crossed all my T’s, you will have been crushed between the weight of two pressurized solid steal walls.  And, yes, these stains are the stains of tears, of raw emotion.

Blue 1992 Geo Prism, you may not have been the best car, but you were my may-have-not-be-the-best car.

I will miss the many fun times we’ve had. I will miss our romps, our adventures, or folly, our accidental killings. I’ve been told that we’ve collected ourselves a rather large rap sheet that’s filled with adventures just like the one we just had! Sadly, I have no recollection of, well, any of them :*(.

I am happy to report that after nearly 2 decades of my sex-free ownership of you, I am now swimming in an ocean of dicks. Yes, I said dicks. You see, prison isn’t filled with the most…let’s say “attractive” women I’ve ever seen. In fact, I wouldn’t even say they’re “women.” More like “men.” “Men” with “dicks.” Hence, the “swimming in an ocean of dicks” thing. I wouldn’t prefer to be swimming in an ocean of dicks, but a starving man shouldn’t complain about the meal. (My meal of force fed dicks, that is!)

I hear the squirrels (that ones that weren’t burned in the fire and subsequent explosion), were sold to a local man during a police auction. He put them on Ebay and is now enjoying the sweet, sweet profits that were no doubt inflated as a result of the massive, nearly around-the-clock news coverage of both the chase and the trial. (You would have loved the “Free The Squirrels!” shirts!).

As for me and my fate? I’m not sure. The judge postponed the trial for a few months due to a “flood of horrifying new evidence” that is, in his words, “incriminating as fuck.” I don’t know what that means, but it can’t be good.

Oh well! You know what they say, “When life hands you lemons, build Rome in a day.” And I’m already laying down the foundation for my lemon-scented Rome. When I’m with my new buddy El Giganto in the court yard, I sneak a little peak at the totally sweet beige 1989 Ford Escort with a crash-damaged rear driver side door and maroon colored hood that’s always parked in the prison parking lot. (The whole car is parked in the parking lot, not just the hood).  It might belong to one of the guards or something. Whatever, doesn’t matter, the point is, I’m already moving on from you and I have some bigger, funner adventures planned for Escort and I.

Eternally yours,

Inmate # 894-57 (Luis Prada)