Anybody Know Where I Can Find A Car-sized Condom?

(3/19/07: A friend of a friend passed away this weekend of a fatal car crash. Out of respect for this person, I've edited the original post, but I'm still leaving in the part where I describe how I stupidly scratched up my Doris.)

I swear, I need a condom for my car. In fact, I think every car should have a car condom. LUBRICATED car condoms. I can't believe the automobile insurance industry hasn't developed some sort of product like this to help prevent accidents.

Think about it: You're backing out of a spot and you accidentally nudge the car to your side. Without the car condom, you'd leave a scratch at best and a dent at worst. With the car condom, you'd be backing out of that spot, nudge the car to your side, and all that would be left as evidence of this very common parking lot transgression would be a small smear and MAYBE the smell of rubber, which the owner probably wouldn't even be able to distinguish from that of the tires.

Or, how about this dreaded scenario: You're having a boring day at work and a cold sore is coming in, so you're in a bad mood and stressing about all the plane tickets you have to buy in the next 6 weeks. You decide you want to get your car washed, because birds who feed on the trash of people who feed on the trash of people who eat an abundance of grain-fed, organic, no-antibiotic, free-range, in-season, pesticide-free, low sodium, gluten-free, flax-laden hippy food leave some of the nastiest shits on a car. And you've got some on your sunroof that resemble fried eggs. This grosses you out, because if there's anything you love more than bearded, mandle-wearing audio nerds, it's riding around in your car with your sunroof open while peeps on the east coast are dealing with ice and canceled flights.

You head out to get a sandwich, but there's no parking, so you decide to head to the car wash first. As you approach the car wash, you see Santa Monica Blvd. up ahead, take in the line of cars waiting to be washed and make a split-second decision to continue onto Santa Monica Blvd. You make a left and start looking for food.

Soon enough you see a Panini shop and not one but TWO parking spots available. TWO! PARKING SPOTs! ON SANTA MONICA BLVD! AT LUNCH! You put your right-hand signal on, but the cunt behind you is following too close for you to expertly back into the spot, which is your favorite driving maneuver as you have an uncanny talent for it.

You decide to proceed to the second spot, but as soon as you speed up, so does that cunt, and then you're once again cockblocked from expertly backing into the spot, which is your favorite driving maneuver as you have an uncanny talent for it.

You decide to then pull into the spot, head-first, California-style. You overestimate the space between your awesome Doris and the lower, older silver Civic to your right. You are soon apprised of this severe overestimation when you hear "CRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSSSSCCCCCCCCCCCHHHHH-
HHHAAAAAAACCCCCCCKKKKKKSSSSSSSSPPPPPFFFFFFFF!!!!!!!!!"

You nervously pull the car forward a few more inches to get it out of the way of traffic and, as you throw your hazards on, the cunt behind you loses her mind and screeches away. Two gay guys happen by to ask if you're ok and then surmise that "Your car got it way worse than theirs." Torn between wanting to commit a hate crime and Do The Right Thing, you attempt to calm yourself as they point out the damage for you and then joke that you should just drive away! Hahahaha!

You check out the damage on the Civic, and it's not to bad, but it does resemble the damage the Valet service at your office did to your car (and rudely attempted to buff away) and then completely denied, in person and via their insurance company. You reach into your glovebox for your insurance info, but realize with a sick thud to your gut that you left it at home on your night stand.

Trying to Do The Right Thing, you pick up a pen, which explodes in your hand. There is black ink everywhere, but you manage to write, "My name is [insert name here]. Please call me. I scratched your left front bumper. My cell is 555-1234 and my work is 555-5678. I'm so sorry." Then, after you leave the note, you drive away, hitting two dead ends before you can finally right your direction. You're so upset and frustrated at this point that you just drive straight home. You don't even go back to work. Then you spend the rest of the night waiting for the owner of the Civic to call you and demand money you don't have, or your insurance info. At least you get caught up on ROME in the process. Oddly, he never calls.

Now, with the car condom, you would have just spleeeeeeeerrrrrrrshed right into that spot, leaving a little bit of lube on the bumper, instead of several scratches and a black streak two inches wide (the result of your condom-less car scraping the majority of both its right-side door panels door panels along the Civic's bumper), gotten your tuna melt panini, and driven back to work.

Condomless cars. They're just an accident waiting to happen.

Now, if you'll excuse, I need to go home and rub Crisco all over my battered car.