Two words: fucking awesome.

This here is why I do business with a car repair shop owned and operated by two Greek brothers (who look exactly alike, and are both named Nick. True story.).

Two Words: You Lose!

Take me to the creative team behind this masterworks, which is posted in the brothers’ waiting area. Share with me the vision. Are the flames emanating from a secret bunson burner somewhere — or did they spontaneously ignite after the oxygen came in contact with the awesomeness of the GTO? Did the car break the sound barrier upon takeoff, creating a sonic boom and a road of flames in its wake? I want to know.

There’s something about this piece that warms my cockles. It reminds me of when I was a kid, and I’d sneak into untitledbrother’s room while he was at football practice. I’d hopscotch around his Dungeons and Dragons game pieces, dirty tube socks and fossilized Totino’s Party Pizza remnants. A crusty bottle of Oxy would be tipped over on his desk, alongside a copy of “National Geographic,” opened to a photograph of an African woman with pointy boobies and neck rings. I’d walk past his album collection — which included John Lennon, Bob Seger, The Charlie Daniels Band, The Beatles and Pink Floyd. Sometimes I’d listen to his records, making sure to steer clear of “The Wall” and “The White Album” (the artwork gave me nightmares, like any good rock album should).

On the paneled walls of his room were all these pictures of muscle cars — Chargers, Super Bees, Mustangs, Furys — all suspended with yellowing Scotch tape. The photos would be accompanied by headlines like “Out to Launch” and “Pony Up.” I can’t make this shit up, people.

It wasn’t long before he graduated from the pictures to having a motor hanging from the ceiling in our garage and a carburetor on his bedside table. I was careful to get the hell out before he returned, lest he pin me to the floor and fart on my head. My reconnaissance gave me a narrow glimpse into what was cool and important in this world, be it right, wrong or indifferent.

So when I see a poster like this at my mechanic’s, I can’t help but think that when I drop my keys off, he and his brother are scurrying to the back room to eat Doritos and glue together model hot rods until their mother says it’s time for dinner. Tell me — knowing this, how could I take my business anywhere else?

Bellyflopping in the gene pool.

I love my husband’s family. Don’t get me wrong. But I cannot figure out how he managed to sop up half their cumulative IQ all by himself. These people are the most generous, sweet, god-fearing people you will ever meet — not that fearing god makes one sweet and generous. But sometimes I have to wonder if we’re not dealing with a touch of dain bramage.

The last time we were home, we made the mistake of busting out the board game “Cranium.” We would’ve had better luck making a mental connection if we had walked into a Wal-Mart and started speaking Latin to the door greeter.

There is this part of the game called “Humdinger” in which one person must hum a song, and the other team members must guess the title. Here is an abridged sampling of the numerous cards they had to return to the deck, because NO ONE on the team knew the songs: “Coming to America” by Neil Diamond, “Open Arms” by Journey, and “Twist and Shout” by the Beatles. I’m sorry, but shouldn’t you be forced to surrender your U.S. citizenship if you don’t know that first song? “They’re coming to America. TODAY!” I am ashamed to admit how many rush hours that little ditty has gotten me through. Put me behind the wheel of my earthfucker after a long day at the Evil Empire and I AM the fucking Jazz Singer.

To be honest, I am surprised the family lineage ever made it here from the old country. I mean, it would’ve required someone knowing how to get through the turnstiles on Ellis Island — a bona fide MENSA test for this lot. Now, if they would’ve had some church hymn Humdingers in the deck, they would’ve smoked our asses like a Swisher Sweet.

The one good part about playing board games with the whole fam damnly is that we get the opportunity to observe the intelligence (or lack thereof) of untitledhusband’s youngest brother’s girlfriend du jour. To qualify for the position, it appears that said girl’s jugs must be larger than her head (or at least a medium-sized honeydew). To their credit, these girls have all amazed me with one thing — their ability to remain standing upright regardless of the laws of physics. Ugh. For about one millisecond, I pity them. Then I remember that their monsterous milkers are accompanied by size 2 jeans.

But alas, it all evens out somewhere, people. All the brain power in the world cannot save me from the humiliation of having to rummage through the underwear table at Lane Bryant, looking for a pair that will both cover my ass and refrain from binding after a spin in the “hotter than hellfire” dryer cycle (the only heat setting impatient untitledhusband will use when doing laundry). For while I’m doing this, you can be sure that sista-girl is rockin’ out in Hot Topic, trying to decide between the leopard-print thong and the beaded halter top. Oh well. I know I could never sleep at night if I couldn’t hum the chorus to “Baker Street.”