Gearing Up

In about an hour, I will be in a modern automobile on my way to the very nice commonwealth known as Pennsylvania. The rental car will undoubtedly be white, which will make me want to spray-paint this on it: “This is just a rental car. I have better taste than this, really I do. My own car would be black and much more sporty and/or elegant. But I live in New York City, so I don’t own a car because that doesn’t really make sense for a whole host of reasons I can’t really go into now because I’m running out of space and spray paint. Have a nice day!”
I am gearing up for the ride. I want to knock myself out. I do not “do” cars very well at all. And no, I won’t enumerate all the things about other drivers that rankle me (please, we all detest the people who don’t turn off their turn signals or don’t use them at all; we all loathe the ones who drive in the shoulder when there’s a jam; and we all detest the ones who climb up our asses to pass us [enjoy that unintentional little rhyme] and then, when they do, don’t drive any faster anyway … blahblahwhocaresshutupthat’snothingnew). I’ll just say that being a passenger in a car — any car, even non-white non-rental cars … even luxurious black AMC Pacers! — nauseates me, and leave it at that.
It does not, however, make me nauseous.
Did you know that when a person says something makes him nauseous or that he is nauseous, that means he nauseates others?
So unless I inspire nausea in someone else by dint of being seated in a white rental car, then I will only be nauseated.
I will have pretty photos of foliage and perhaps food when I return. Hold onto your hats, your seats, and, as my father used to say, and which always nauseated me, your … “crotch rot”.
I’m off.