110. We are always looking for Fatty Poos.

Let me explain.

My first car, the car I drove when I was 16, was a Suzuki Aerio.  Silver, just like in the picture if you click on that link.  That particular car model is… well, a little bit short and stout.  It also has a very loud, very small engine.  One day, when my friend Jamie and I were driving near my high school, we were joking about how even if I wanted to drive fast, I couldn’t, because all that happened when I pushed the gas pedal of my car really hard was that the engine rotation speed dial thing went “all the way up to FOUR!” and the car made a loud sound.  This conversation took place at a red light, and as the light turned green, I hit the gas (not hard) and urged the car uphill, saying this phrase: “you can do it, little fatty poo!”

From then on and forevermore — since that fateful November day that Jamie and I burst into fits of laughter trying to get my little buggy up a perfectly reasonable hill — the Suzuki’s name was Fatty Poo.  My dad refuses to call it that name and insists on referring to it as NEN, the first 3 letters of its license plate.  Joke’s on you, Dad, since Minnesota issues new license plates every seven years and thus…Fatty Poo’s has been replaced and now reads “999.”

Anyway, after I went to college and my sister turned 16, it became her car.  Since she went to college, it has (with a few bumps) transitioned into being “our car.”  But it’s our “at home” car so neither of us drives it on a regular basis during the school year.  And it’s not that common of a car (it’s no Corolla.  One of my favorite driving games to play in cities is “count the Corollas”, there are always tons.  Once I saw three parked in a row).

So my sister and I usually text each other when we see a Fatty Poo.  Today I saw a baby blue one and immediately texted this pic to my sister.


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