Metamorphosis.
The paramour is a gentleman, there are no if ands or buts about it. He's charming, affable, rather kind, holds steadfast values, and is generally a delight to be around.
Right up until the moment he gets behind the steering wheel of a car.
Then he becomes his Pappy.
His Pappy is also a gentleman, old school, a softly spoken sort of a man, would do anything for you, cooks a mean Sunday dinner, charming, affable, and an absolute delight to be around
Right up until the moment he gets behind the wheel of a car.
Then he becomes, well, anti-pappy.
My best friend, who is heavily pregnant right now, is a small fierce lady, loyal, funny, eccentric, easily amused, highly flammable.
Right up until she gets behind the steering wheel of a car.
Then she becomes the Incredible Hulk, flaring up and down as she races across the country side at speeds-and in heels- forumla one drivers can only dream of.
My own mother, the Lilac Couch, is psychotic, tearful, lilac wearing, funny, batshit insane, amusing in a non related way.
Right until she gets behind the wheel of her car.
Then she turns into an owl. Or at the very least her neck does. One of my abiding memories of childhood is fighting with one of my siblings and being terrified as my mother managed to swivel her head 360% so that she could yell at us while the car hurtled along at breakneck speed.
Just what the hell is it that happens to folk when they get behind the wheel of a car?
How come my paramour suddenly becomes colour blind?
'That light was red.' I might say.
'Not it wasn't.'
'Er, it was.'
'Which shade of red though?' He might reply, somewhat cryptically.
How come the Pappy becomes Joe Pesci?
'What's this gobshite doing!!??' Pappy might yell, clutching the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white as a person -approaching a roundabout ahead- slows down. 'There's nothing coming!!'
'Apart from that car there.'
Pappy won't see the car because like the paramour he is rendered partially blind once securely ensconced in the driving seat. Instead he will roar past the slowing down car and fly through the roundabout, tyres making that 'screeeee' sound as they cling to the road, fighting gravity, the laws of physics and traction.
How come my friend becomes Ayrton Senna?
'Darling I"m just leaving home now, I'll meet you in Dundrum!' She might say
''Okay.' I will say, glancing at the clock in the kitchen. 'I'll see you outside Pennys in what? An hour?'
'Ahahahahhaha.' She will say. 'I'll see you there in half an hour.'
'Erm, but you live-'
'Bye, don't be late.'
And she will be there, she might come through a portal for all I know, or she has a button that say 'Warp speed' on the dash of her Golf, but she can cover distance like a mini Gandolf in a Volkswagen Shadowfax
Just what is it that happens when these exemplary folk climb behind the wheel? What neurons fire up? What dark cloud descends? What small demon wakes and begins to whisper in their ears?
Cars, who knew they had such power?
Right up until the moment he gets behind the steering wheel of a car.
Then he becomes his Pappy.
His Pappy is also a gentleman, old school, a softly spoken sort of a man, would do anything for you, cooks a mean Sunday dinner, charming, affable, and an absolute delight to be around
Right up until the moment he gets behind the wheel of a car.
Then he becomes, well, anti-pappy.
My best friend, who is heavily pregnant right now, is a small fierce lady, loyal, funny, eccentric, easily amused, highly flammable.
Right up until she gets behind the steering wheel of a car.
Then she becomes the Incredible Hulk, flaring up and down as she races across the country side at speeds-and in heels- forumla one drivers can only dream of.
My own mother, the Lilac Couch, is psychotic, tearful, lilac wearing, funny, batshit insane, amusing in a non related way.
Right until she gets behind the wheel of her car.
Then she turns into an owl. Or at the very least her neck does. One of my abiding memories of childhood is fighting with one of my siblings and being terrified as my mother managed to swivel her head 360% so that she could yell at us while the car hurtled along at breakneck speed.
Just what the hell is it that happens to folk when they get behind the wheel of a car?
How come my paramour suddenly becomes colour blind?
'That light was red.' I might say.
'Not it wasn't.'
'Er, it was.'
'Which shade of red though?' He might reply, somewhat cryptically.
How come the Pappy becomes Joe Pesci?
'What's this gobshite doing!!??' Pappy might yell, clutching the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white as a person -approaching a roundabout ahead- slows down. 'There's nothing coming!!'
'Apart from that car there.'
Pappy won't see the car because like the paramour he is rendered partially blind once securely ensconced in the driving seat. Instead he will roar past the slowing down car and fly through the roundabout, tyres making that 'screeeee' sound as they cling to the road, fighting gravity, the laws of physics and traction.
How come my friend becomes Ayrton Senna?
'Darling I"m just leaving home now, I'll meet you in Dundrum!' She might say
''Okay.' I will say, glancing at the clock in the kitchen. 'I'll see you outside Pennys in what? An hour?'
'Ahahahahhaha.' She will say. 'I'll see you there in half an hour.'
'Erm, but you live-'
'Bye, don't be late.'
And she will be there, she might come through a portal for all I know, or she has a button that say 'Warp speed' on the dash of her Golf, but she can cover distance like a mini Gandolf in a Volkswagen Shadowfax
Just what is it that happens when these exemplary folk climb behind the wheel? What neurons fire up? What dark cloud descends? What small demon wakes and begins to whisper in their ears?
Cars, who knew they had such power?
posted by fatmammycat at 9:29 am
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