Kar-El

I'm on my third rental car in twelve months. My company, due mainly to inter-continental displacement, but also because they're so nice, rent a car for me to drive around in. I presume they're still expecting me to use it to come to work in. I should really ask about that.
After breaking the first two -- both 2011 Nissan's -- Hertz Rent-a-car have tried switching me over to a 2012 Toyota. This seems to have been an unsuccessful endeavor. Faced with the prospect of reaching its first birthday, the car unveils, upon ignition, a light on the dash which flashes "Maint Reqd" in a you're-not-yet-totally-fucked yellow. Now I'm no mechanic, but I have a feeling this means the car -- my third in a year, remember -- requires some maintenance.
I know I should follow this advice before I'm stranded at the side of the interstate during rush hour, cursing the fucking idiot who designed this piece of shit (or whatever I call the perfect combination of years of innovation, technology, and Ph.D's in extremely difficult stuff that involves lots of mathematics and graphs, over the phone to the guy from Hertz). I suppose I've slid all my chips to the middle of the table on the chance that there'll be a sterner red light that says "Get to a garage quick, asshole, before the green light comes on". What's the green light? I'll wonder. "A big fucking dollar sign, Idiot", another light will reveal itself, from some other corner of the dash.
There really are a lot of those lights, let's be honest. And most of them are just some obscure, indecipherable symbol vaguely representing an engine, or an oil can. And that's if you're lucky. Some of them are just random shapes in various colors, designed to keep you're eyes off the road as much as possible. Some of them aren't even bad: "Hey, bro just letting you know your lights are on." Uhhm... thanks. "Yeah I'll just stay here, next to your speedometer, just in case you forget why you're able to see in the dark."
It's not that I dislike my cars, and I promise I have passed my driving test. I'm just careless. We all do regular, menial tasks on autopilot, such as take to the streets in our 100 mile an hour metal killing machines while listening to 80's rock. Who needs to concentrate on that shit? It takes care of itself, right? So my autopilot just happens to be a 15 year old with ADHD, sue me (Disclaimer: please don't sue me).
Anyway with the first one I hit a pothole. Ok, I hit a curb. While answering the phone. While turning a corner. In the rain. The important thing, however, is that the nice lady behind the desk at Hertz Rent-A-Car in [undisclosed location] thinks I hit a pothole. "Those damn potholes, Dah," I tutted shaking my fist in the air at the madness of it all. I think I convinced her. (The important thing to remember, for anybody who might ever read this and happens to work for Hertz' legal team, is that none of this is an admission of guilt, and I love you guys, and we all make mistakes, and... free advertisement, and you look great in that shirt/blouse...).
The second car I didn't really break. Hey, I'm not a total idiot. Ahem... I just kinda scraped it a bit along the side. In my defense, it was while driving along a really narrow bridge, and the barrier had all kind of scrapes and different colored paints on it, so I'm not alone here. I don't judge the other stupid jerks who can't drive in a straight line, so please don't judge me. As it happened this car came due for its regular service, and they wanted to sell it on, so I brought it back, parking it strategically with its "good side" facing the office, then very calmly returned the keys, made polite conversation about the weather (cloudy, if I remember correctly), picked up the keys to the Toyota (Christ, imagine if they'd bought American) and shot out to the parking lot, a trail of flaming tire tracks in my wake. I thought I'd be able to hide out until it was time to fly home. I didn't even wreck this one; I made the missus do most of the driving. Then a quick drop off at the airport, "Damages? Surely not? Why madam, I have a plane to catch..." But because seemingly I'm car kryptonite, I've got another super awkward moment of sheepish, tongue-tied explaining to do, all while wondering who in the name of all that is good and holy decided that adulthood be based on age, and thus I was one.
But not until that fucking red light comes on.