Otis, my sort of adopted brother, has a habit of impulse purchasing. No, I don’t mean breath mints, or Ped Eggs, or Pez dispensers in the check-out line; I mean toys. He already has a habit of purchasing expensive radio controlled planes from the hobby shop and wrecking them during fits of boredom. Used to, when he drank, he’d go online and bid on items up for sale on Ebay, then forgot about them. Two weeks later, things like hover crafts, canoes, and kayaks would miraculously show up at his doorstep.
The other day, he talked one of his co-workers out of a Stella Scooter with a sidecar. Ten minutes after he bought it, he wrecked it! But that didn’t stop him. Of course he had to initiate it properly by convincing me I must go for a ride in the sidecar. Man, I’m such a sucker. You'd think the bruises and scars on his body from the wreck the day before would have deterred me. Sadly, no. Despite hearing the little voice inside my head screaming, "Don't get into the scooter! Don't get into the scooter!" with that evil voice reserved for horror movies and situations such as these, I put on the helmet and climbed in. And as you know, “Anyone who rides in that is automatically your bitch,” according to the film Garden State.
Off we went, through the neighborhood, zipping at
speeds in excess of twenty-five miles per hour. I don’t know about you, but twenty-five miles per hour in a “suicide machine” translates to sub-light speed when there are small pets and squirrels zipping about the pavement and pot holes lying in wait. Not to mention that Otis has probably used up eight of his nine lives already. And thus now, Otis, who is just a crazy heterosexual dumbass, has also discovered that his new scooter with the sidecar is so gay that it’s actually a chick magnet! Women actually talk to him now. He’s the cat’s meow. Zipping here, motoring there. And me, well, I’m apparently just Otis’ bitch.
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