The Burning Buick Incident

Dear diary,

Now I notice smoke and flames coming from down the road, just southeast of our house, so Jeanette and I walk over there to see what’s happening, and it turns out that there’s a 1965 Buick Riviera flipped bottom-up, and it’s on fire and ready to explode. Our herd of swine is swarming everywhere, all around the burning automobile and in the road and on the grass of the nearby yards; and the car’s owner is trying to shoo away the pigs when he looks up and spots us — he cries: “Will you help me!?”

“What’s the problem?” Jeanette paces closer and begins absentmindedly patting one of the fat pigs on its side (it oinks contentedly).

“These cursèd beasts have overrun the road! I was just driving back from the shop, after getting a new transmission installed; and, when I turned into our neighborhood, these swine came out of nowhere and overran the car and pushed it about ten feet sideways, making the tires squeal right along with their own incessant squealing; then they pressed the vehicle hard against the curb, which provided resistance, and eventually the car flipped over and caught on fire; so I crawled out, and any moment now it’s going to explode!”

“That sounds incredible,” I say, taking a step towards the man and stroking the pigs as I pass them. “I almost can’t believe that you’re telling the truth. Are you sure that you weren’t drunk and flipped your vehicle into the ditch when you drove off the street because you had fallen asleep at the wheel?”

The man stares at me in rage: “Don’t insult me. I have proof that what I’m saying is true; because, when I first saw the herd, I slowed to a stop and pulled out my portable phone-cam to record the sight, thinking that I’d post it on The Social Network since it looked so unusual: this suburban pig-invasion is just the type of thing that seems to go over well with folks who watch videos online. But then these hogs started rocking me and tipped the whole car over; and now I’m concerned that the gas tank is soon to ignite, which will cause an explosion like you’ve never seen before!”

Despite wearing a gorgeous glittering gown, Jeanette is crouched down on all fours, attempting to get a good look inside the 1965 Buick Riviera that is upside-down and burning. Now she stands and addresses the angry man: 

“How do you know what types of explosions we are familiar with? We watch a lot of adventure films — perhaps we’ve seen disasters you yourself would never dare dream about.” And she nods with satisfaction. Then she looks at me, and I give her a wink and the hand gesture that means “nice comeback”.

“Let me see the proof of your testimony,” I reach forth and try to take the man’s phone from his hand.

“Stop!” he shouts. “I’ll show you the video, but I don’t want your filthy mitts all over my device.” Then he holds the screen close to his face and adds: “I just need to navigate to the proper folder, so that I can open the file — I have a lot of stuff stored in this phone that I want to keep private…” (A few moments pass while he thumbs its screen and we enjoy the sound of the flames roaring in the background.) “OK, here it is.”

The man holds out the device’s screen so that Jeanette MacDonald and I can see it clearly. Sure enough, it shows, from the point of view of the interior of the Buick, our herd of swine pouring thru the streets of Eagan like a living, fleshy river, and affectionately greeting the car by bumping it until they slide it sideways and ultimately capsize it. Recorded on the soundtrack of the video, the man behind the camera provides a live, running commentary strewn with the filthiest language.

“Wow, you curse like a sailor,” I remark.

“Well I was terrified, especially when the car caught fire,” he sez indignantly, while his voice from the video continues to swear and curse.

“You know, you could’ve been nicer to our pigs,” sez Jeanette, referring to the audiovisual evidence that we all continue to watch. “Look how you keep shoving them.” 

“I’m terrified that the car is going to explode—” the man looks up at Jeanette in exasperation, but she continues staring at the mayhem on the phone-cam’s screen. “I’m pushing them aside because I’m trying to save their hides! Need I remind you that we’re all still in imminent danger!? — Any instant now, my car will explode and demolish this entire block of houses!” 

Jeanette and I are fixedly watching the scene play out on the phone screen: soon, amid the chaos of pigs and this driver who keeps screaming invectives while shakily filming the mess, Jeanette and I appear in the background, walking down the hill. “Hey, that’s us,” I say, and she and I exchange a smiling glance. But, shortly after we enter the shot, the film ends abruptly.

“Aw! Why’d you stop?” I pout. “NEVER leave off filming until I yell ‘Cut’!”

Now the automobile explodes, but it’s not half as bad as the driver predicted. Only the nearest couple houses in the vicinity get obliterated — beyond that, the only damage is that a Buick-shaped crater now occupies the yard where the car had been burning. No pigs were hurt during the performance of this mishap. I receive a dusting of soot all along my right-hand side, and Jeanette’s hairdo gets frizzed; but this only makes her look more fun-lovingly attractive. However, sad to say, the foul-mouthed driver of the deceased Buick Riviera passed away instantly, because a wooden stake from the engine shot out and lodged directly into his heart. So, with Jeanette taking his hands while I hold his ankles, we lower the corpse solemnly into the car-shaped crater; then kneel for a prayer and return to tending our swine.