I love my car. It's a real beauty. I drive a 1991 Mazda 323 hatchback buffed in a high gloss white with a couple of rusty “character flaws” and a busted key in the hatch. It gleams even on a dark day, and it starts and stops when I tell it to. That's all I care about. It has automatic seatbelts, but no power steering. It's nice to know I'll be safe when I careen straight into a guardrail because I couldn't cut the wheel in time.

It has an idiot buzzer that constantly “beep-beeps,” which annoys passengers, but not me, because when I drive alone, I'm normally blasting tunes of bands you've probably never heard of, making easy to avoid little auditory nuances such as beeps or police sirens. I rarely have passengers, I tend to travel alone, and if I'm carpooling, most of my comic friends are disgusted in my taste in music, so they suggest we take their vehicle. Okey Dokey, my little yuk-buggy likes a day off now and again, and I'm thrilled to not have to stare at yellow lines in front of me, orange cones beside me, and flashing blues behind me once in a while. Being a passenger gives me the freedom to do what I truly do best…desecrate the driver and play with my belly button. Throw a few cigarettes into the mix, and I'm grinning.

Let's get back to my Mazda. She has been so good to me, reliable, attractive, and always there for me. But Alas, as a true wanderer, I am having impure, perverse thoughts of a hot new shiny steed to plant my well-traveled buttocks upon. Sire, cleanse me of the perverse sin that is monthly car payments and full coverage. Surely, if I explain my needs to my darling Yuk buggy, maybe she can work out a compromise with me. Perhaps I'll make her a nice dinner and give her a hot coat of wax, and I'll have the same urges for her that I did three years ago when I liberated her from her venomous pimp. (Most people call them car salespeople)

I see the luscious German supermodel on the TV screen telling me that, yes, there are “Drivers wanted.” I'm virile, capable, and willing to spill my seed (cigarette ashes) on some fresh leather interior. But what about the one who loves me, doesn't she have feelings? She has stood under me like a truly dedicated soul mate for every wrong turn I've made in Boston, she's accompanied me to each of my character building tours of Northern Maine, and even smiled at me when I abandoned her temporarily in New Jersey. But yet, I still yearn to place my tender palms on a shiny, newer set of wheels, and feel the excitement that only a new lover can provide. What can I do?

After some thought and therapy, (budgeting) I realized that I must remain faithful to the one who loves me. Sure, two of the locks don't work, but I have the key to her heart, and it works every time I insert it. That's good enough for me.

To catch Shane and his car in a town near you, go to www.shanekinney.com for his current tour dates.