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PHILOSOPHY - My car the pimp

By Phil Villarreal
Arizona Daily Wildcat,
April 3, 2000
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by Phil Villarreal

I am a hooker. My pimp is a 1988 Honda Accord.

Admittedly, prostitution is not an occupation befitting a guy just a few weeks shy of college graduation, but that's the best way to describe my financial situation.

I go out on the street to make money - by journalizing, not prostituting - but some would argue there's hardly a difference between the two.

Of the little money that I make, most of it goes to my car (henceforth known by its pimp name, "Queeny").

Queeny is not a traditional, dominating male pimp who would smack his hookers if they withhold too much money. She - yes, Queeny is a female for obvious reasons - "pimp slaps" her hooker (me) by breaking down.

When I haven't put enough money into her for a while, Queeny simply stops running, leaving me stranded. Then I have to call Triple-A to have her towed.

But that's just what happens on the good days.

Sometimes, Queeny decides to have her battery die when I'm in a convenient place like the middle of the Speedway Boulevard and Sixth Street intersection, forcing me to open the car door and push her out of harm's way.

You name something that could go wrong with a car, and it's happened to Queeny at some point.

Exploded radiator? Happened in '97.

Tire blowouts? Two in February of '98.

Starter that wouldn't start the car? Three weeks ago.

Dead water pump? Two weeks ago.

About the only car tragedy that hasn't happened to Queeny is that she has never been abducted, even though Accords are traditionally the most-stolen vehicles in the country.

You can't blame the car thieves on that one. Queeny is ... how does that cheer go? "U-G-L-Y, she ain't got no alibi - she UGLY!"

Queeny's got something more effective than a car alarm. She's got a big, nasty dent in her side - a result of being run off the road by an old man in his pickup truck last winter.

Her left tail light is all taped up because some punk kid bashed it in a few months ago, and on top of all that, she's been washed a grand total of one time in the three years I've owned her.

With more than 209,000 miles on her tired soul, Queeny spends just as much time at the mechanic's place as she does on the road. She's like a geriatric, mean-tempered dirty, old woman who spends most of her time in a hospital, running into things at night and using bedpans.

Queeny probably even gropes young mechanics as they walk by.

"Why don't you come over here, sweetie!" Queeny probably says. "You can check my transmission fluid!"

Obviously, the mechanics don't mind having me take Queeny into them on a regular basis, no matter how much sexual harassment trouble she gets herself into - most likely because I've contributed more than $700 to the auto-repair industry in the past month.

Last week, I complained to one of my friends about all the money I've spent on my car. Instead of being met with sympathy, the response was: "Is your car even worth that much?"

Before answering, I pondered. Of course, my car isn't worth that much in the "Blue Book" or whatever.

But she's got a "Cardinals Fan" bumper sticker on her, and she's been with me throughout my college years. Like all good hookers, I am faithful to my pimp.

"Sure it is!" I answered, and then drove off to work.

Ten minutes later, I called that same friend back and asked if I could get a ride. Queeny had dropped her transmission.

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