I’ve been out of town for about two weeks straight and I’m not gonna lie, I have a big stack of un-written content looming over me like a towering mountain of, um, non-written content? This is a good problem in many ways, in that it means I have interesting things to share with all of you, my favorite people I mostly never actually see. And yet, somehow, instead of getting on all that, here I am banging out another Automotive Would You Rather. Why? Well, perhaps it’s because these have been praised as being “just dumb” by at least one commenter, and I can’t let them down. Not now, not ever. So, with that in mind, let’s leap boldly into the kiddie pool filled with chili that is a genuine Autopian Automotive Would You Rather!
Your shitbox leaves you stranded by the side of the road yet again, this time somehow improbably with what sure looks like a leaky belt. You can’t even figure out the physics behind it: somehow the belt seems to be leaking this gooey ichor all over the pulleys, and it’s causing the belt to slip wildly, preventing your engine from actually doing anything useful.
Some of that black, gooey fluid drips onto your forehead as you’re under the car, and the shock of the strangely warm fluid causes you to bolt upright, slamming your forehead against some part under there. The impact happened right at a place where the carmaker’s logo – in this case, the Yugo “Y” – was stamped, and the impact made a sort of logo tattoo on your forehead.
Then, amid a series of noises that sounded like an entire brewery was launched into a stampede of aluminum hippos, you look to see your Yugo repairing itself, parts sliding into place, dents loudly popping out, plastics re-materializing, wiring regrowing, and more. In moments you’re looking at a perfect, new version of your old shitbox, only now just box, because it is shitty no more.
Amazed, you wipe your hand across your forehead, wiping off your belt-juice logo tattoo, and in doing so, your car instantly reverts to the shitheap it was.
After some trial-and-error with a sharpie, you realize that if you tattoo your car’s logo on your forehead, it will remain perfect. You even bought a wrecked Alfa Romeo Brera that looked like it was crushed by Mount Rushmore, and after carefully stenciling Alfa’s snake-eating-a-dude logo on your head, it looked perfect. You did some tests and found that if the logo is obscured by a hat or bandana, it doesn’t work. It must be visible.
So, it appears you have a gift: any car you want will return to and remain in perfect condition, as long as you have its logo tattooed or at least drawn and visible on your forehead.
Okay, I know I’ve been accused of making these too scatological (I didn’t go to school to earn a Masters of Scatology for nothing) but this time my wife thought this one up, so you can’t blame me. But it still sort of involves bodily functions, which, I’ll remind you, is a universal human condition that transcends time and culture, so, you know, beat that.
Anyway, here’s the deal: You buy a bag of off-brand Lucky Charms and when you whip it open you find inside, surrounded by the knockoff marshmallow green emeralds, blue clovers, red rubies, or whatever the mostly mummified remains of what seems to be a leprechaun, or maybe just some other non-Irish gnome-like being in goofy clothes.
You pull him out, connect him to your car battery via his nose (positive) and toes (negative) and give him a good jolt, and boom, he’s alive! He’s coughing and smells just hideous, but he’s quite happy to be alive and freed from the knockoff cereal bag, and in broken English thanks you profusely.
He then says he wishes to give you a gift, and with that leaps upon your face and slides a slimy tongue into your nostril. You panic, but then freeze, your body briefly but violently quivering, then calming. The leprachaun-ish being lets go and drops to the ground.
He tells you that he assessed you, and felt your love for cars. Therefore, he gave you a related gift: if you chug spoiled milk, you will be able to urinate ten times as much in the form of gasoline. So, chug a half gallon of spoiled milk, you can pee five gallons of top-notch, premium gas into your tank. A whole gallon of spoiled milk becomes ten gallons! Never pay for gas again! Go on any road trips you want! You just need to choke down some spoiled milk, occasionally! You can open your own gas station and make bank!
So, what’s it gonna be? The forehead tattoo that gets you a perfect car, or free gas whenever you want – well, whenever you get access to spoiled milk! So, choose wisely: