My daughter blew her car up. I suppose it happens when you don't put fluids in the car. Everyone's allowed one car blow-up when they're learning, I guess. But, it's the second car she blew up. She's a serial car blower-upper. Her hobby. Girl seriously needs a cheaper hobby.
It happened on December the 13th of last year. Friday the thirteenth. I had to go bail her out on a snow-blowing night and drive her sisters home. Okay, Dad diligence done.
We were looking at about eight grand to fix it. Then, like a blessing from above, a miracle happened. A friend of my ex-wife's said he could do it for a thousand bucks. I threatened to name my next-born after him.
This "friend," I think, is laughing all the way to the bank.
We'll call this kid "Maguffin." Just in case he might come through one of these years.
Two months later, the car is still engine-free with the hood off. Collecting dust in my ex-wife's garage.
He keeps saying he'll be over the next day to finish the job. I haven't heard these many excuses since Bill Clinton talked his way out of an impeachment. One day the kid hocked his tools much to my frustration. Another time he claimed the ol' "sick grandma" excuse. Of course who could overlook the awesome "out of gas" routine. Then there's the weather.
For God's sake, I feel like a fool.
My brother says he hopes the Maguffin enjoyed his thousand dollars worth of drugs. I'm beginning to think that might be the truth.
Meanwhile, I'm carting my daughter around like it's grade school days again.
Beware "gifts" that look too good. They just might be a "Maguffin."