My (near) brush with greatness

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Way back, before the day everything changed, I bought my first car.

It was a silver 2001 Honda Civic EX coupe.

I was so proud of myself. I had worked hard, saved a lot of money and now I was going to finally be able to replace the aging Ford Probe my dad had given me when I moved out to California.

I went to the dealer, negotiated a good price, signed the papers and then only realized that I was going to need a new insurance policy.

I was really intimidated at the thought of doing this. I had never bought insurance before, I was covered by my parent’s policy.

“Don’t worry,” the salesman told me, “Let me get my friend King Kong on the phone.”

King Kong?! Wow!

I was really excited. I had never met a monkey before, especially not a giant one, so naturally, I couldn’t wait.

Maybe I had heard him wrong?

Yep. I had. He had actually said (in his fast-talking salesman voice), “Kim Khan.” Not “King Kong.” Which sucks. Alot.

Anyway, this Kim Khan guy couldn’t get me as good a deal as Mercury and plus his name was kind of a liar, so I didn’t buy any insurance from him.

It just sucks though, you know? Six years later and the whole thing still bums me out.

Game Over.

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18 comments

  1. I gotta disagree. I would much rather buy auto insurance from an Asian. Most giant monkeys can be dangerous and unpredictable. Only about 20% of Asians are dangerous, and most are not giants.

    The physics professor at my college, Dr. Kwunia, also told me that Asians are much smarter than monkeys, and most people. I then said to him “Giant monkeys brains are bigger than a person, even Yao Ming, and that has to mean something, right?” He got a real angry look, said something in some goofy talk, then told me to get back to work. I hate being a janitor.

  2. The correct term is Hermaphrodite. Please get it right next time, sir. But I gotta come clean, I am a bit of a nepotist. My Dad and Grandpa are the head janitors.

  3. Just because the trailer for Rush Hour 3 is out doesn’t mean the movie is finished.
    They could still steal this.
    Then whaddya gonna do, jump around like Mr. Rogan?

    Farts

  4. When I moved to Minneapolis I had to get my own insurance too. I kept driving around the block looking for a Progressive Insurance place that I had found in the phone book, but I couldn’t find it.

    The reason I couldn’t find it is because in certain parts of town Progressive is spelt “La Progressiva”. OOOPS!

  5. That’s true. It’s not. If you’re talking about the Ford Probe, that is. Next thing you know you’ll be saying that there’s no such thing as the Pontiac Buttfucker!

  6. I am from Pontiac, Illinois and I can assure you that there is a Pontiac Buttfucker. Not a car, but my next door neighbor Steve (oddly enough, he actually drives a Probe). It would take too long to explain the origin of his nickname, The Pontiac Buttfucker, but I will tell you it involved a bottle of Dramamine, an 18-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon, and his helper monkey Little Steve.

    We used to call him The Pontiac Monkey Buttfucker, but we decided that was too crass. Pontiac has a large percentage of old people and small children.

  7. The Pontiac Buttfucker was just their version of the Chevrolet Hermaphrodite. You could also buy a luxury version- the Cadillac Chlamydia. It had power windows and itched a lot.

  8. I remember the Cadillac Chlamydia. That car was THE BOMB! My cousin had one that was tricked out with all the extra features. The coolest were the 6 CD changer, heated seats and the infected fallopian tubes. That car was so fun to cruise in, it was totally worth the unusual discharge from my penis. Not the preventable blindness in my left eye though. That has really put a damper on things.

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