Model S: A Chick Magnate!
Dear Teslamotorsclub Forum,
The following story is true. I’m willing to swear, in fact, on everything I hold sacred: my Model S, the newly released MS iPhone app, my retirement savings (87% in TSLA stock), and the success of SpaceX’s future expedition to Mars. I still can’t believe something like this actually happened to me!
Anyway, before I took delivery of my Model S, I was pretty much a pathetic loser. My last real relationship, during my freshman year at college, was with an emaciated exchange student from Kazakhstan, who demanded fifty dollars cash and a pair of in-line skates before agreeing to a second date.
I guess I wouldn’t consider myself handsome in the classic sense. I’m somewhat overweight and balding, I tend to suffer debilitating irregularity, I sweat profusely when nervous (and not nervous), and I have a chronic periodontal malady. I do have a killer credit score, however, and managed to secure PenFed financing at 1.49% for my Tesla, after nearly seventy phone calls to their hapless customer service representatives.
During the seventeen months I waited for my vehicle, my fellow enthusiasts, I lusted over a particular Whole Foods Market checkout girl with remarkably healthy looking teeth and gums; let’s call her “Denise.” In my futile attempts to impress her and to establish my natural products credibility, I had purchased roughly fifteen hundred dollars worth of misshapen organic produce, fish oil extracts, and lemon verbena colon cleansers.
But my romantic fortunes changed on a cold and blustery Chicago evening two weeks ago, when I pulled my brand new Metallic Blue, 85 kWh, Pano, Obeche Glossy, Air, Tech, 19”, No Premium Sound Model S into the reserved EV spot in front of the Whole Foods Market. I tried my hardest not to turn around and ogle my prized possession on my way into the grocery store—only a total DB does that—but how could I help myself?
As I made my way to the snack aisle that fateful evening, I fondled the key fob in my pocket like a talisman. Notwithstanding the lone door handle on my car that wouldn’t retract, the notorious lack of parking sensors, and the perpetually Northern navigation perspective on the touchscreen, I owned the baddest car in the Wholefood’s lot. A beast.
I placed my five bags of organic cheese & caramel popcorn blend on Denise’s conveyer belt, one of the bags nearly extinguished (I couldn’t resist the salty-sweet paradox). Besides the sweat drenched waistband of my Dockers and some unfortunate chafing along my inner thighs, my EV made me feel virile, empowered, “fully charged” as it were.
“I seem to have forgotten my six-pack of vitamin water,” I told Denise.
“We’re about to close,” she said curtly. I found myself distracted and slightly nauseated by the metallic hoop piercing her eyebrow, nearly the size of an old fashioned doorknocker. But who was I to be so finicky?
“No sweat,” I said, which obviously wasn’t true; sweat pored down my forehead. I pretended to text someone, opening my iPhone app and remotely honking the horn of my car. “Looks like you have an admirer,” I said.
“You have an admirer. That car outside is honking at you. Hear it…? And on three it’s going to flash its lights. One… two… three.”
“What the hell?” she said.
“It’s me. I’m doing it, I’m the admirer!” I couldn’t stop giggling. “I’m the one who’s honking the horn and flashing the lights!” I may have snorted.
“Show me how you do that,” said Denise. She grabbed my phone and laid on the horn over and over. Her hyena like cackling didn’t bother me at the time because she smelled so wonderful, like spicy scented candles. In retrospect, I think I was smelling the spicy scented candle display next to the magazine rack.
I almost had to pinch myself when Denise agreed to accompany me for a spin. “Hold on,” I told her, merging onto Lake Shore Drive. I hit the accelerator hard, maybe too hard, because we both screamed in terror. During my informative lecture on regenerative braking, she squeezed my thigh, nearly sending us careening into Lake Michigan.
Denise didn’t much care for my taste in furnishings, declaring that my house reminded her of a funeral home. She insisted we return to my attached, two-car garage, to my Tesla, which I plugged-in and heated to a cozy 74 degrees. After listening to various Slacker selections for forty-five minutes, I commented: "Do you realize that carbon monoxide would have killed us by now had this been an ICE vehicle? Just think about that.” But Denise had other thoughts.
I won’t describe what happened next. Suffice to say, I had to draw the line at her request to to get frisky in the frunk. “Sure it’s ample,” I said, “but not nearly ample enough.” I was concerned about the risk of hip dislocation, or the potential embarrassment and $100 dollar fee for a Ranger to come and extract us should we get stuck.
Since that magical first date, I’m sad to report that many of Denise’s qualities that I initially found so charming and quirky have become somewhat pathological. And for my safety, and that of my Model S, I’ve been forced to file a restraining order against her with the Chicago Police Department. But let the record state that I hold neither Elon nor the Tesla Motors Company responsible for this unfortunate turn of events.