So a buddy of mine taught me a new euphemism for female genitalia the other day, and I think it is very funny.

Squack.

That's right. Squack.

As in, "that Nina Hartley sure has a pretty squack!"

I have never, ever heard that one before.

This same buddy nearly reduced Sonya and I to tears, laugh-wise, by rewording the old Velvet Underground song, Perfect Day, as done by Duran Duran.

"It's such a perfect squack..." he crooned.

Funny, funny stuff.

My buddy sang his little squack-song on the way to In The Grove, a local lavender-flavored watering hole where some coworkers of mine were having a going-away party for me. A couple of them had been there before and recommended the place highly.

It was pretty nifty. We sat around on some big ol' comfy couches, drinking beer and playing Taboo. Once the coworkers were drunk enough they quit watching me and I'd simply recite the forbidden words and watch me team score points. It was fun.

We also saw David ("Just David!"), so that was a big plus right there. He was happy, out hangin' with his homeboys. He joined our party for a while and there was much rejoicing.

My coworkers had a fine time, too. The same coworker who told me about squack got up and did the Robot (the jerky '80s dance, remember) while another got up and shook her booty, Soul Train-style.

I recommend In The Grove. It's a mellow, funky kind of place, with lots of good artwork and a friendly vibe. If you're in the area you should check it out.

Thursday at work - the day after the night at In The Grove - I was sitting in my office, feeling vaguely hungover and restless. I decided to take the rest of the afternoon off and go car shopping. After all, how could the boss deny me? What could she do if I left? Fire me?

I grabbed some fast food and took the truck to Mr. Pride (a local car-wash chain) to get the worst of the dust knocked off. I stopped by Buster's Liquor to get a vodka box to put all my shit in. I cleaned out the car and went shopping.

My first stop was a dealership with a long history in the area. I won't say the name, but the owner used to hang out with Elvis, you know? Anyway, I went there to look at a 1998 Mitsubishi Eclipse. It was an automatic, true, but it was also loaded, and the price was very good.

I drove it, trying to ignore the loudmouth salesman with the bad hair and the too-small suit who rode with me. It was a little sluggish, acceleration-wise, and the wide racing-style tires looked awfully worn to me. Still, I figured I'd talk about it and if I could get the price down far enough I'd consider it.

Get this: I give the guy a key to the truck so he can look at it and make an offer, right? I walk outside with him. Him and an appraiser get in the truck and take off. I look over the prospective car some more. Ten minutes later the appraiser comes back, in my truck, and doesn't give me my key back. More than anything else, I hate it when they try to keep the keys to your car away from you. After ten more minutes and the original salesman hasn't shown up I'm ready to leave. Thankfully, I gave dude my spare key. I drove away to look at some Fords.

There was a message on the machine at home before I made it to the next dealership. "Where'd you go?" he whined. Fuck you, buddy. You steal my key, you lose my business. That's my rule. And ignoring me? I don't expect much from car salesmen, but a lack of attention from one was truly a surprise.

I look at car salesmen the way some men look at prostitutes: they offer a service that is necessary from time to time, but you don't want to be around them any more than is necessary. Right?

I drove a Ford Focus, too - the cute little hatchback. Sonya has been violently opposed to the Focus, but they've got an excellent financing plan, they've won all sorts of awards, the price is right...and, again, I think the hatchback is cute.

I can say, though, that the inside is ugly. Very strange looking, and it handles weird, like a really tall box on wheels. Which it is. I didn't like it so much after I drove it.

So I decided on a 1999 Eclipse, instead. One car dealer in town had about ten of 'em, all former program cars, and I picked a nice little maroon one. I got the car at a decent price, too, so I'm proud.

The last day of work was uneventful. I was cleared from the system early, so I couldn't do any work, even if I had been so inclined, which I wasn't. The coworkers took me out to lunch at The Arcade, where I ate a hummus sandwich with too much garlic. I've reeked of it all weekend. They also gave me a trophy ("Quitter Of Merit," it says), an award that says the same thing and an electronic basketball goal that makes noise and returns the ball to you. I'm a big fan of office basketball.

And that was pretty much the high point of the weekend. Friday night we came home after some initial running around and we were both asleep before ten. Sad. Saturday Sonya got her nails done and I went to Target. Then we got the final two Young Ones videotapes, completing our collection. Then we came home and vegetated. Occasionally, we would throw things at the dog. For entertainment, you understand.

Today we had brunch at Zinnie's, which is always nice. We made a run to West Memphis, too, to see the parents, but no parents were home. I took down my mom's Christmas tree instead. After that the day has been a wash.

And I start the new job tomorrow. I must admit I'm a little nervous about this, but I'm always a little nervous before a new job. I'm afraid that after two weeks they'll say, "Harold, I'm sorry. While you're resume is impressive you are actually a jerkweed. Perhaps you should consider a career in the custodial arts, because you sure can't cut it here."

That hasn't happened yet, so I'm hoping my streak of not getting shitcanned 'cause I'm a moron will continue. I got a new car, a bad attitude and the talent to pay the bills.

I hope.

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