Car talk with the Gangliozzi Brothers

By Robert Granger

Dear Tom & Ray,

     Recently, my boss pissed me off by giving the promotion I was after to another guy who is, of course, less qualified than me in every way (including anatomical endowment). To get even, I decided to use the old-school "sugar in the tank" prank on my superior’s BMW. Thing is, even after adding a generous quantity of said sugar into said gas tank, the car up and drove just like before without the slightest complaint, save for the creamy caramel substance oozing from his exhaust pipe. What’s up with that?

Revenge is Sweet in NYC

Dear Revenge,

Tom: Wow, man! Next time, try throwing in a bag of chocolate chips and peanuts and see if you get a candy bar!

Ray: Sorry, Revenge. You’ll have to excuse my brother–his excessive crassness has impeded his judgment. What you SHOULD do is try cheese and wine, then invite all your friends over for a fondue at the boss’s parking spot.

T: Now that we’ve sufficiently infuriated you with our ceaseless humorous banter, we can get on with answering your question and making you feel like a complete idiot. I love this formulaic writing.

R: I agree. Think of it, Ray; we’re the automotive equivalent of Ann Landers!

T: Doesn’t she have a sister?

R: Hmm…

Revenge: Uh… guys… my question?

T: Right. The BMW, being a German-made car (and therefore a European piece of trash, not suited at all to North American conditions), is equipped with all sorts of safety features, including brakes (oooh!), seat belts (aaah!), and a gas tank filter (WOW!).

R: This last piece of equipment filters (hence the name) all solid particles that may inadvertently (nudge nudge, wink wink) find their way into the car’s gas line.

T: Making it very difficult for petulant, unoriginal vandals such as yourself to sabotage it. My advice is to forget the whole promotion business, buy your own BMW to ward off your blatantly obvious mid-life crisis, get out of New York and open up a nudie bar in Kentucky.

R: Or next time, just slash his tires and have rough sex with his wife.

Dear Tom & Ray,

I… uh… accidentally lost the key to my Club, which is now permanently affixed to my… uh … my vintage 1964 Malibu. How do I get it off without ruining the perfect upholstery?

030147728, San Quentin

Dear 030147728,

T: Well, when I want to get it off in my car, what I usually do is cover the back seat with newspapers, buy some expensive champagne (Baby Duck never fails) and porno, call up some fine women…

R: Sorry, 030147728. You’ll have to excuse my brother–his excessive libido has impeded his judgment. What you SHOULD do is try cardboard instead of newspaper. It’s much more resilient and has that erotic, fibrous, wet-dog smell.

030147728: Uh… guys… I meant remove the Club.

T: Right. There are two alternatives–one is cheap but slow and the other is much more rapid, but it’ll cost you a pretty penny.

R: You keep hearing about amateurs removing the whole steering wheel and leaving the steering column intact. This is clever except that it leaves you no freaking way to turn. Therefore, both our methods leave everything intact, provided you’re careful.

T: Our first method involves bulking up at the gym (estimated cost: $60) for a couple of months, then bending the contraption in question into a pretzel, which you will then eat.

R: But we’re assuming you’re in a hurry, so you’ll want to go quick and dirty. Get yourself an acetylene tank and torch (estimated cost: $2,000) and bisect that cumbersome metal mofo, taking care not to burn the wheel.

T: Remember to wear a ski mask or panty hose to disguise your face, drive all the way to the Mexican border and lay low for a couple of months.

R: And next time, try to pick an easier target, like your grandma’s car.

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