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In my short life, I’ve come to the conclusion that a strong woman makes you a stronger man. A woman who you will face the West’s Winds to protect. And as you look behind you, proud of what you’ve done, you see she needs no protection and the whole time she was standing against the East’s Water.

— “Courage is grace under pressure” Earnest Hemingway —

In that vein, elegance is grace under social pressure, which is why this car is named Grace. She is beautiful. In drafting this ad, I was going to say “She is beautiful, isn’t she?” but realized, it isn’t a question. She is beautiful.

The green is Jaguar’s British racing green. They say green is the color the eye will never tire of seeing, because it is natural and all around us. There is something wild, vulnerable, fierce, and soothing about it and her.

Like any great woman, she demands your attention, but in a way that isn’t asked for but instead is instead freely given. It’s not owed, it’s invested.

She’s beautiful and she’s caring. The type of woman who will slowly put her hand on your back and slowly rub circles to calm you down and instinctively knows when it is needed most.

Don’t fool yourself, though, she is a fickle mistress, but she’s an old world beauty and a mistress that somehow your wife would approve of.

A woman who knows how not to spill caviar on her fox fur shawl.

She may not be able to speak french, but looks french, which is good enough.

Her smoking is not a social faux-pas, but instead something mysterious.

— Tempus Fugit —

A car ages 2 years for every 1 human year, which would make her approximately 42 years old.

Yes, there will be problems, but nothing that can’t be fixed. Yes, there are newer cars. Cars with newer features. Cars with different colored paint. But, I promise you, time will show they have their own set of problems, probably worse problems. They are made of plastic and are cheap. Besides everyone knows, newer cars simply aren’t made the same way.

There is nothing classic about them. Class is the route word of Classic. Think about that for a second.

— Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder —

And everyone else. You’ll find this to be true each time someone stops you to remind you what a beautiful car you are driving.

Like any mistress, or woman for that matter, she has her own set of issues, life on the road will dish out dints and dings. But be honest, like any man so do you, so I don’t hold that against her and neither should you. Furthermore, she holds her head high and proud.

— “It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important.You are responsible for your rose.” Antoine De Saint-exupery —

You’ve reached the age you need to take care of the woman who is still willing to take care of you. So take the wheel with one hand, hold her hand with the other and face the highway of life. Dream, people. Enjoy the ride. I promise you, it’s a good one, even if there are a few potholes that you may hit.

While you should buy a jaguar, don’t be a jaguar, be a lion. And don’t just be any lion. Be the lion who gorged himself on a gazelle and is now napping the African sunset waiting for another day in his kingdom with his pride.

Just don’t forget that gazelle was probably brought to you by a lioness.

After recently completing a sobriety program, I realized I’m not a hipster, I’m just an alcoholic. Why am I telling you? Because I am leaving everything behind from that lifestyle. When Cortes reached the new world, he burned his ships so that there would be no possibility of turning back. In this vein, I am selling my Ray-ban Wayfarer II sunglasses as I exit the “hipster” stage in my life to guarantee I never make this (those) mistake (mistakes) again.

Funny, now that I have taken those sunglasses off, I can see how ridiculous it all was. Either way, my becoming a productive, responsible member of society is your sweet score. I paid $70 for them (used), so you can have them for $50.

Even in my new role as a working stiff, I still enjoy a good showdown, so here is how we are going to do this…Send me a 3 sentence reason why you think these glasses would be yours over anyone else and/or a commentary on hipsterdom in general. At the end of the week, I will decide who is best at which point we’ll arrange a time/place to get you the glasses. If it’s super awesome, I’ll give them to you for $40.

Hemingway won a bet in six words once. I’m giving your three sentences. Frankly, I feel I am being generous. Actually, more than generous.

Do your best, or worst, whichever, I don’t care, just let me know. If this ad is still up, they are still available. TEXT ONLY – I don’t plan on going through a bunch of emails, half of which are spam. Speaking of which, start your text with “Dearest Brandon” so I know this isn’t a scam.

“Dearest Brandon” will not count towards your three sentences, as it is a salutation.

With all the apathy I can muster,

Brandon

*Quick note: I’d never be so pretentious to buy Ray-bans. At least, anymore Ray-bans. This was written pretending to be my friend, Brandon, and the number included was his, so he received random texts for 45 days like “Dearest Brandon, Please let me purchase your sunglasses so that I may pursue my dream of picking up where you left off in my pursuit of becoming an alcoholic hipster. Love, Halee. Seriously tho. Let me buy them”

He and I were pretty stumped.

For the first time in my life I have found an inanimate object that I simultaneously love and hate. It’s my 2006 Subaru Impreza wagon, “Thumper.” How do I feel about selling it? Indifferent.

Every time I look at this car I just want to kick it, but then I stop myself, take a breath and reflect on all the positive attributes and good times with it in my life. I can only imagine this is what having kids is like.

But I’m crossing the bridge of sales, leaving Thumper on the other side and setting a napalm fire to said bridge following my crossing. With any luck, the napalm would catch the car on fire and I could just put a claim on it. Actually, you didn’t read that.

Anyway, where to begin. . ..

Strike one – Hippie Car.
I purchased it from a friend who was leaving the country to join the Peace Corps. Now there are a couple reasons why this is important and bad. First, I got stuck with the car. Almost immediately I knew it was a mistake. I wear boots, it wears a smug sense of entitlement. Second, the Peace Corps black-bagged my friend to a place I can only guess is located somewhere between a Heaven’s Gate meeting and Bernie Sanders Rally. Right now, he is living in a mud hut in central Africa, farming beans. 10 bucks says he’s sitting around petting a goat and reading Marx Communist Manifesto as we speak. So, yeah, not really putting that $200K education to work.

Strike two – Haunted/Possessed.
After driving it from NYC I stopped in a truckstop parking lot to sleep near Chicago. In the middle of the night WHILE STILL ASLEEP I started the car and started driving around the parking lot. When I woke up, I was careening towards a parked Big Rig trying not to hit one of the lot lizards scurrying around. Could you imagine that? Accidentally hitting a lot lizard? Ugh, what a nightmare that would be. There wouldn’t be an insurance policy or bottle of bleach big enough to clean that mess up.

Strike Three — I finally ended up back in Minnesota.
Now technically, this is by no fault of the car, but something has to take the blame for that abysmal part of my life and I’m not selling the state of Minnesota. If I was, I would sell it to ISIS for two cases of Budweiser and a pack of Camel Royals, and let the questionably legal drone strikes commence. I’d sit there in a lawn chair getting drunk shouting things like “How’s your goddamn walleye population now!?”

When the Rubber Meets the Road
Now that I’ve had the opportunity to vent a little bit, let’s get serious. It’s all wheel drive. I’m talking boots on the ground, tires NOT spinning, this thing hauls through pretty much every weather condition in the country. When living in Minnesota, I sometimes just looked hopelessly out the window at the miserable existence known as winter before work. Sure enough, there was Thumper just itching to prove its worth to me. It was slightly annoying actually. . .”Thumper, stop. Just stop. No matter what you do I am not going to change the way I feel about you.”

*I guess I should explain I named it Thumper because this little thing just hops all over the country like a rabbit and surprising quick for a 4 cylinder. That and rabbits are arguable the most challenging the thing to shoot.

I’d turn the key, eyes closed, half hoping it wouldn’t start just so I could stay in bed and think about Halcyon days of Kansas City in July with BBQ, front porches and whiskey. Sure enough though, that thing would dig itself out of whatever the Great White North could throw at it. So, that should be put in the positive side for this car, but with an annoying asterisk.

The Trunk
Best trunk I’ve ever had with a car. The back trunk is suspiciously large. Me and the dog went all over the upper Midwest and this car kept everything. I was mistaken as homeless more than once – not joking. I’m not proud of how dirty I kept the seat, but I learned early in my Minnesota days to have enough supplies to live out of your car for at least two weeks. The trunk doesn’t stay open, but I will get you a dowel rod which props it open. I’ll also give you the emergency tuna rations.

It is a stick shift, which is a great feature. It makes you feel like a rally car driver. Thumper is of the lineage of Rallying, but its no rally car. This is like the younger cousin at the Rally family gathers that no one likes and accidentally slams your finger in a door once when you were kicking him out of your room even though he wanted to hang out. Sure it was 20 years ago, but some things are hard to get past.

The engine is the same engine in a Porsche Boxer. Laughable I know, and rest assured Thumper is no Porsche. Also, the genius who designed this engine had it lay sideways so the head gaskets would leak. Don’t worry, I replaced them for $2,000.

Good: Just, I mean, don’t even make me try to list this. It’s a really, really good car. Like probably one of the best cars I’ve owned. It will get you from point A to B. Maybe not in style, but at the very least in safety. I just don’t want to validate its existence by making a list of positive traits. Thumper would probably just take it, draw hearts all over the page and take it as a sign that I want to continue hanging out. I know, I’m an asshole, but I don’t care and I’m busy with a new Toyota.

Bad: The clutch may or may not be going out. It’s starting to sound like a hellcat fighting a dementor when letting the clutch out, so I’m guessing it’s the clutch.

It’s got dints and dings. Nothing crazy, but nevertheless.

Someone just come and take this car. I feel like an abusive pet owner that the catty suburban wives all whisper about (“Mary, can you believe how he treats that poor subaru? It’s a shame. *takes sip on her 2:30pm margarita* Someone should do something about it”). Maybe this car just needs some love. Replace the clutch and I’m sure it’ll go another 100,000 miles no problem.

Here is a picture of Thumper in all his glory. Or her glory. I don’t know – its a pretty androgynous vehicle, still trying to establish its identity on the highway of life.

Hi Everyone,

Got back in town after some travel and found pair of boxers at my girlfriends. She swears she has no idea how they got there, so I’m turning to craigslist to see if we can help find the owner of said pair of boxers.

Brief description:
Old Navy, Size Small, Navy Blue, with Skiers on them doing acrobatics (see picture)

Description of who I can gather we’re looking for…

*The Old Navy bit* I don’t know any grown men who shop at old navy, so I’m guessing the owner’s mother is buying their underwear. Ahh, good, first clue, we’re looking for a mama’s boy.

*Size Men’s Small* You know what they say about small hands right? Small dick. Who even wears small? I’m really going to be disappointed if my gf is banging a circus midget.

*Navy Blue* The only reason men wear dark boxers is they are afraid of skid marks, and I don’t mean from bike tires.

*Skiers* I’ve always said keep who you want to be on your underwear. This is why all of my boxer briefs I have hundred dollar bills, a 2007 100′ twin mast Spirit Yacht sailboat, and scantily-clad women. Living in Fayetteville wearing skiing boxers is like living in Minnesota wearing palm tree boxers. We covet what we can’t or don’t have. Maybe this man-boy has delusions of being a skier? I’m not sure.

So to wrap it up – if you know a mama’s boy, with a small dick, who shits his pants, and has hopes of being a stick figure skier, please have them shoot me an email and we’ll get right to the bottom of this.

Thanks,
Jason