Panty waste

Every teenager dreams of waking up on thier 16th birthday, and being handed a beautiful box, wherein lie the keys to a rad car. They want to walk outside, and see a purple IROC in the driveway (but instead of "IROC," it says "IROCK")with a big bow hanging on it. Are ya with me?? THINK 80s. THINK 80s. Okay, NOW you're there. So anyways, this was kinda my dream--instead of an IROCK, I wanted a black Jeep.

My parents were totally against buying me a Jeep, not only because Jeeps were dangerous, but because my parents were frickin' ass poor, and couldn't afford to buy me one. I'm sure they WANTED to buy me one, but in a 16-year old's head, your parents just hate you because they just hate you because they hate you. That's why they won't buy you a car. Because they hate you. Not because they have no money. But moreso because they hate you.

My parents had posed questions to me several times. Questions such as: "Do you think money grows on trees?" and "Do you think I can just crap out money?" No, I didn't think that, but if one of them COULD crap out money, that would be pretty cool. Diarrhea wouldn't be that bad of a thing. "For Christ's sake! I have bills shooting outta me like water!" Not too bad. Moving on...

So shocker of all shockers, I didn't get a car. I think I actually got a gift bag containing beef jerky, red-shoelace licorice, and banana baby food. These are things I ate on a regular basis because I starved myself. My mom just FED the eating disorder. I sat in my room that day, crying because my parents hated me so much that they couldn't even shit out a couple thousand bucks to get me a car.

Jump to the next summer....

My dad comes home from work, driving this total POS. Unbeknownst to me, this piece of shit was my new car. I use the term "new" loosely. It was a 1984 Dodge Aries. Just what every 16-year-old-princess wants to drive to school. I mean, shit, the wrong brand of jeans could damn your reputation for life, and here are my parents wanting me to drive a geezer-mobile to school. OH, THE MORTIFICATION. My brother was just laughing his ass off, until I reminded him that he was next in line for the car.

I tried to make the best of the situation, so I got the cleaning bucket and joined the rest of the fam, trying to spruce up the "silver bullet." So here we are: 3 red-headed kids, a red-headed dad, and the blonde mom, all out in the driveway, doing a "family scrub" of a hideous car. It was like the Partridge Family, but without the singing. As my brother is fishing around in the crack of the back-seat bench, he touches something soft. He pulls it out from the crack, and it's a pair of panties. THE SIZE OF A WHALE. I kid you not. They were the type of panties that you buy some poor guy at a bachelor party. They are HUGE. And...I don't even know how to say this...they were not clean. Oh for God's sake, I'm just going to say it: The crotch was yellow and stained, people. MONSTROUS, DIRTY PANTIES IN THE BACKSEAT. The screaming and running that ensued after that discovery will forever be etched in my brain.

More car stories to follow...