Ho ho ho! Merry F-ing Christmas! What a great time of year to spend with family and loved ones, and an even better time to find out how much your roadside assistance provider really cares about you.

Let me explain. My car broke down on Christmas day, and I took advantage of my membership to my provider, who shall remain nameless, but here's a hint, it rhymes with Fat Albert's signature catch phrase. I had full confidence in them, due to the fact that they had told me that my mechanically retarded ass would be covered 365 days a year. Not the case. They only cover emergencies, and I write for FACE magazine, not Newsweek, so Shane Kinney and his little white Mazda are about as important to them as the socks they unwrapped on that balmy Christmas morning. So, I accept the fact that I'm stuck, have to crash in hillbilly Ville, (or TR-316, however you want to refer to it as), and the next day, I asked my friend to recommend a mechanic. He told me “Go see this guy, he's as honest as the day is long.” So I brought it to the mechanic, who said, “I can't get to it now, there aren't enough hours in the day.”

Somebody is pulling my chain here.

So after two action packed days of dancing with wolves and hearing about the latest white trash remedy, Folgers crystal meth, I finally get my money burning funny car fixed, but not without getting taken, again.

Mechanics always tell me I need ball joints for my car. If I replace them, drive to the next town, and break down, the next mechanic tells me I need ball joints. Is this a universal language among mechanics to basically tell you that they're going to bone you for 350 bucks? I'd love to bring an auto jargon translator with me the next time this happens. They'll tell me, “You need ball joints.” Translation: “You have run out of gas, which proves to me that you are a complete moron. This will hurt you much more than it will hurt me, so go ahead and grab your ankles, but don't forget to grab your credit card on the way.”

Let's just hope that the translator and the mechanic aren't in cahoots, because I can't afford a new timing chain right now, my insides are ticking like a time bomb as we speak.

And have you ever noticed how a mechanic has the same bikini calendar from September? Did they try to decorate the place and decide to stop at September? And then you get a closer look, and it says September………. 1978. Now, I like to look at bikini-clad women, but not the same one for 24 years. Then I realized that is probably the exact month when all the honesty, and heterosexual tendencies left the mechanic. They stopped fantasizing about women, and started dreaming of sticking it to me.

Next time you visit a mechanic, look for a calendar. If it's a new one, you'll see a big picture of me in a mechanic's outfit zipped down to expose my motor oil laden chest, with the most upsetting look on my face imaginable, and holding up my Visa card.

It's not the most comforting feeling knowing that you're Miss October.

If you're in Portland, Shane highly recommends Young's Auto Radiator on Forest Ave. They're good people.