ABSTRACT
I hate to admit it, but I really don't know how my car works. When I raise the hood, the engine looks like a miniature jungle to me. Tubes and wires and metal contraptions seem to grow right before my very eyes in a confusion of mechanical verdure. When ever I foolishly venture into my car’s heart of darkness, I swear that wild animals spring from the shadows and claw my knuckles and bite my fingers. My safari jacket is quickly devoured, and I lose my pithe helmet. Frantic in this hostile forest, I look for safe escape as oil and gasoline begin to rain down on my head. Tortuous hours later, I emerge from the perilous jungle, tattered of mind and body, smudged of face and persona, but grateful that my wounded fingers still have the strength to stagger through the yellow pages in search of a good mechanic.
