Connected stories

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A friend of mine (thanks Massimo!)Â told me this amaz­ing and ridicu­lous story about men and cars and how they com­mu­ni­cate their feel­ings and needs.

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My brother was out for vaca­tion and, after a cou­ple of weeks, he called me ask­ing about his brand new car. “Hi George – he said – could you please go and take a look to my car? She called me this morn­ing ask­ing for some care about the engine; it was not so clear, she looked a bit ner­vous, could you go to my house and ver­ify her status?” I was puz­zled by this con­ver­sa­tion, but it was my brother’s voice and it seems quite nor­mal. He said “You’ll find the right key on the desk near the main entrance, but please don’t use the red one ‘cause it’s only for emer­gen­cy”. In a while I reached my brother’s house and, obvi­ously, I took the red key. When I opened the garage I remem­ber a bit of fear in the dark, I looked sus­pi­ciously at the red light glanc­ing into the room but finally I entered the car and put the key into the hole. Every­thing was ok, the car choked and started to roar, but a clear mes­sage appeared on the dis­play, invit­ing me to drive for about 10 miles in order to recharge the bat­ter­ies, noth­ing else.

I drove for half an hour on that won­der­ful car, full of optional and very good smelling, and then I reached the garage again. The scene that appeared was incred­i­ble and funny too: a police patrol and a wrecker were appar­ently wait­ing for me or, bet­ter, for the car I was dri­ving. I went down slowly while police­men and mechan­ics looked at me sus­pi­ciously. One of them, a mechanic, started with “Hi, man, your car called me say­ing there’s some­thing wrong and you need assis­tance. Where is the problem?” but the police­man yelled out “Wait, wait, the car called us for first, talk­ing about some­one that is steal­ing her, start­ing the engine with the wrong key…So, please, who are you??”

I went out of this night­mare in a cou­ple of hours, ‘cause my brother was unavail­able on the phone for an expla­na­tion to the police­men. But, when I started to shout and kick the left door of that won­der­ful car, he called me back imme­di­ately cry­ing “Please, George, my car called me, she is under attack!!!”

Why do I blog this?
Con­nected things, what a fan­tas­tic future!