Kizzler Chronicles

I have a contraption manufactured in the bowels of hell that masquerades as a car. It’s been quite aptly baptized ‘The kizzler’. Those who know this thing will argue that it is clearly a Japanese make and model. They couldn’t be further from the truth.

I have a particularly good {though inherently fiendish} friend from the lake who is sort of like a wart on your scrotum- he has to grow on you. Annoying at first, definitely disturbing then you gradually get used to its presence and pretty soon it becomes a part of you and you forget exactly when it first showed up.

Anyway this guy used to introduce me to everyone by a nickname he came up with for me. BMK.The nonchalant way the three letters would roll off his tongue was a honey trap all on its own. Soon after this introduction he would carry on a discussion that would soon drive his prey to eventually succumb and ask what the acronym stood for. Then with a particularly gleeful glint in his eye the question would always be posed.

“Who does this guy look like? Here is a hint, think television.” A couple of wrong guesses and scratched foreheads later the second question. “You don’t watch the ‘Bernie Mac show?” After a short pause, to date I never fail to get amazed at how quickly and obviously realization would strike. The animated reply would come “The kid! Yeah this guy looks like the kid.”

So there you have it Bernie Mac Kid. What I will never understand is that people never seem to remember the kid’s name. Needless to say the harder I fought this name the more it stuck. It sucks, I know. Then snoop dogg came up with all this shizzle, hizzle, dizzle thing and my nickname morphed to BMKizzle and once in a drunken stupor someone simply shouted out ‘Where is the kizzler?’

So when I rolled up in the hood one day behind the wheel of what would turn out to be the devil’s long abandoned chariot it was promptly christened “The Kizzler”. So that’s how my whip got its name now let me tell you how it whipped me into submission.

When I tell you that the in Kizzler was Lucifer’s chariot at some point you might be inclined to think that I jest. I have often visualized many impish figures cavorting along a production line with various demonic engine parts. Ball joints {I had no idea balls had joints.} forged from the dentures of all those old geezers thrashing about in the lake of fire. Engine block transmogrified by the devious mind of Hitler. Body crafted and painted lovingly by courtesans of Sodom and Gomorrah. Tires made from the discarded condoms used by Bill Clinton during his tenure at the white house. The leather seats handcrafted from the hides of animals that perished during the great flood

I purchased this infernal machine during the week preceding Easter. My girl had planned a getaway to the coast and much to her chagrin I let her get a head start and joined her a day later since I wanted to surprise her once we got back home. After a lovely alcohol drenched weekend we got back to the city where amidst a quick succession of mild protestations, a frosty glare and monosyllabic responses I asked the cab driver to take her to her house. I wanted to drive to her house later that night and surprise her. Unfortunately exhaustion got the better of me and forty winks turned out to be my forty days.

I was roused from my slumber by an incessant sharp rapping on my door that I recognized only too well. Trouble (Not my gal Trouble, though she is a story for another day) was knocking at my door. With a lot of trepidation I opened the door and there she was fuming, demanding to know where the other woman was! My spluttered declaration of innocence was swept away by a rather expansive and all encompassing wave of her left hand as she swept through the house like a banshee

Failure to uncovering the insidious relationship breaker brought her bawling to a crescendo. A wave of wailing I had only heard at funerals manifest in my living room. Through all this I had followed her around whining like a beleaguered pooch, my pleas of ‘Baby it’s not like that’ had seemingly gone unheard. ‘It’s my car.’ I blurted out.

This brought on fresh paroxysms of an unending sob-fest like I had never seen. I was accusing of taking her for granted, Selfish, inconsiderate, unilateral and many more unprintables that had nothing to do with my admission of buying myself a car etc.

In a nutshell buying the car cost me more than the price of purchase. I gained a car and lost a girlfriend. My pals tried in vain to console my remorseful banter with ‘This car is a pu**** magnet man! Count it all joy!’ Their sermons went Unheeded .I was inconsolable. The infamous new car smell I will always associate with break ups.

The Kizzler had played its opening gambit in the nefarious plan it had for me, I had been dumped. Kizzler 1: BMK 0.


About BMK

I have always been overwhelmed by the exuberance of my own verbosity and the fecundity of my mind's eye. View all posts by BMK

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