WEIRD UPDATE TO WEIRD POST:
I learned something new, people! I learned that mufflers, ON THEIR OWN, grow hair like Donald Trump’s! They do! And then, when they get too old to drive, they spit it out their undercarriage in shiny, regurgitated whorls of toupee-like ejecta! Yup.
Thanks to one of my children’s former band teachers, who corrected me politely on Facebook, I now comprehend that, in fact, it’s just this hirsuite internal wrapping of fiberglass that makes modern mufflers muffle.
Apparently, mufflers puke up wigs when they get all holey. And apparently I need a new one.
You don’t believe it, just click here for a disturbing array of hairy automotive strangeness.
Be warned: that’s some scary shit. I’m surprised such aberrant muffler behavior hasn’t inspired a horror flick of some kind. If they can make a movie about a serial-killing car tire, which I was lucky enough to review in my former life as a critic, why not muffler hair? You see my point? Imagine the combovers!
Hmmm. Maybe I’ll write it.
ORIGINAL WEIRD POST (i.e., that was the wig that was):
Okay, so this is weird.
The other day, after pulling up in front of my house in the way-way-older of my two blue Hondas, I casually glanced at the rear end and spied something gray and hairy, kind of like my head, draped from a hole in the muffler. It looked like the fur from the belly of a long-haired cat. Or maybe a luxuriously pelted fox. Or a raccoon. Or a grandmother. Shit! Was that a ponytail dangling out of my rear? Had I actually run over a sentient being unawares and sucked it up my exhaust?
I got down on my knees and examined the bushy extrusion, first with my eyeballs and then, tentatively, with my fingers. I took a deep breath. THANK GOD it wasn’t human, or even mammalian; it was some cheapo plasticky silver fright wig streaked with pinkish highlights. The ensuing twin revelations (Yay! I didn’t kill anyone! and What a vile thing to put on someone’s head!) were quickly followed by a third, more inquisitive thought (What the fork was that doing in the road?), which led to my fourth and final conclusion (Shit! I better get that thing outta my muffler before it spontaneously combusts and I’m consumed by a rolling fireball!).
With this last, forceful imperative in mind, I yanked at the first draping lock of hideous faux hair. Out it came. Out more came. Out came so much that I started to worry that the neighbors would emerge from their homes, watch me surgically extracting hair from my car’s underbelly, and call the police. But this worry did not stop me on my quest to de-wig my aged Honda. I pulled, and I pulled, and I pulled, tugging at that fibrous mass until I had, on the pavement beside me, a giant, swirling barf-up of wiggy plastic filaments.
I must say, it creeped me out. It looked like it might be a sentient being unto itself. Would this puzzling vortex of hair start talking to me? Would it demand to be fed, like the Audrey 2 in “Little Shop of Horrors?” Would it sprout legs, put on a tie and run for president?
Naturally, I whipped out my iPhone and snapped a picture.
I have no great wisdom to offer, here. This is not going to be one of those blog posts where I reflect oozily on life, death, mental illness, grief after suicide or some fun combo of all four. I’m not even going to try to draw profound conclusions about the weirdness and mystery of life, the peculiar and surprising happenstance that dots our daily progress. Nope. This is only a post about THE WIG THAT GOT STUCK IN MY MUFFLER THAT DAY, and that is all.
I swear that’s it. Nothing more. No deeper meaning anywhere.
Besides, I threw it out.