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Why should only living arrangements of molecules with their birthdays and moons and constellations and rising stars of fusing hydrogen earn any greater privileges in the grand cosmos than man-made mechanical contraptions such as a rubber duck or a pay toilet? I believe that cars have rights too. Just think of the effects of these same planetary gyrations and ejaculations of profundity on a lonely car as it rolls down that assembly line in Detroit under the constellation of the Great Lemon Major. Why shouldn't the great corporate creators of cars themselves be subject to any different zodiac rules and regulations than God, and all the living things in the great mystical heavens of woe and wisdom? That star - I say that star right there dimly twinkling 6,000 light years away, and that one too, the one a little to the left, made my car what it is today.
Have you ever noticed that every car has a unique personality of its own? Do you think this is merely an accident? Absolutely not! There are profound tamper-proof reasons for these things. And the answer is only as far away as a fleeting glance to the heavens.
My car looks like it has a fat lip, the result of a collision with someone who mindlessly barreled past a stop sign on a blind corner. Now there may be a callous simple explanation for this accident in complicated terms such as personal negligence, lack of experience, forces, vectors, probability, velocity, momentum, structural and flexural rigidity, and the impact itself. But there might also be the more palatable and profoundly complicated explanation in simple terms such as the stars, the moon, Jupiter, Uranus, my anus, the mechano-rhythms of both cars involved, and their dates of departure from their spawning metallurgical nurseries.
My car was a Pisces Belair, but it had been acting an awful lot like a Cancer, possibly the result of those old Sagittarian pistons in the fifth house, which in car astrology is the fifth garage. The electrical system was rising but the entire exhaust system was in retrograde. I knew all was not well under the hood. The other car was an Aquarius Corvette on the cusp of a lisp. The stars were in motion, and only the astrologer's charts could predict that the ditzy young Taurus with her two-day-old learner's permit was overdue for an abrupt rise in her insurance rates. With Capricorn calypso music blasting from a Leo tow truck there was so much more going on that day than met the casual unenlightened eye.
I can't fathom how man in his infinite wisdom and cosmic astrological consciousness has failed to recognize the simple truth about the poor zodiac-deprived machines of man. So the next time you see one of those sixty foot ladles filled with white-hot molten molecules pouring into the molds of future machinery, take a good hard look at the planetoids and flickering stars in the abyss of the light years and empty space, and contemplate the cosmos of all knowing guidance. Read your charts carefully. Consult your local vending machines. Pay your insurance, and act in the only way the red carpet of destiny allows for both you and all your appliances. You and your car may have even less control than either of you ever imagined.
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