kyphysics said:
Only gripe I have is that my car smells bad. Lots of food stains soaked into the carpet over years of eating fast food in there. I'm a slob who doesn't vacuum it either, nor do much of any other interior cleaning. I stopped caring around the 11 year mark, lol. I WOULD, however, take good care of a new car and never eat in there again. Just had some bad habits back in the day and got lazy with cleaning over time.
Haha. That reminds me of a funny story. In 1986 I was attending UCSB as an undergrad. My dad was a big shot stock broker back then (for Dean Witter, remember them?). So, the big shot stock broker, which he still is (Morgan Stanley now), instead of going Gordon Gecko on me and buying his kid a new Porshe, instead "bequeathed" me a 76' Plymouth Duster. I really didn't care, it was wheels and my surfboard fit inside it, so that's all I really cared about back then.
But, to the point of the response, there was this one incident...
One night I went to this popular Italian restaurant in IV (IV stands for "Isla Vista, the college town for UCSB. The cool kids say IV, though) and got spaghetti and meatballs and (I think) a chicken parmigiana plate for the co-ed who was keeping my bed warm. You know how they package these things. It's the aluminum foil bowl with the paper lid that that the aluminum crimps over. So, it was something like that. In my rush to get back to the co-ed, I hastingly stacked the two meals on top of one another on the passengers seat. The spaghetti and meatballs was on top.
So, in a classic physics experiment, in my hurry to get home, I went RIPPING around this one corner, and, sure enough, the spaghetti and meatballs went sliding off the top of the chicken parmigiana plate and emptied into the crevasses between the seat and the passenger door. I felt so stupid that my solution to this was to refuse to clean it up. It was the ultimate expression of denial.
So, sure enough, three months later, there stood the emptied spaghetti in the passenger door jam. I didn't give a F*&%. Hence, the Plymouth Duster was subsequently dubbed, the "Spaghetti-mobile." It's a true story, I swear. My dad thought that was the funniest thing in the world. So much so that, about a year later, he had a similar incident, and in the spirit of defiance for a self-imposed idiotic act, decided not to clean up a similar "take out" catastrophe he created in his car.
I wasn't there to witness his incident so I can't speak to it, but I believe him.