Car washing nonsense

I spotted this bumper sticker the other day:

Warning: “DO NOT WASH! This vehicle is undergoing scientific dirt testing!”

Oh my gosh, I gotta have that bumper sticker. My old 2003 Honda sometimes doesn’t get washed for six months or more, depending on how much pollen, dirt and bird doo from flocks of avian visitors resting in the tree above my car gets deposited. Certain times of year are way worse than others.

Caution, Andy Rooney moment: i just can’t understand why on earth people will pay $25 or more to have their car run through a huge brusher tunnel and then have it hand-wiped dry by a surely exhausted group of dryers. I can’t even imagine doing that outdoors in the summer, either. Pure torture and they probably get paid just above the minimum wage.

When I was a teenager there was nothing I loathed quite so much as washing our car after my dad compelled me to do so each fine Sunday afternoon. “It isn’t even dirty,” I’d whine.

But Dad was merciless. “Why can’t you just do what I tell you to do?” That was never my strong point with Dad. I’d grumble and grouse, and then grab the soapy bucket of water, reach in to get the sponge, and then commence with that irksome chore.

My shrewd younger brother, however, when commanded to do this chore, agreeably said he get right to it, and then race off to do something else, while I angrily had to wash, not one but two cars in his stead.

“Much ado about nothing,” I say. However, I’d give in and finally wash my car when the birds had too obviously left their calling cards all over the hood and roof. Actually, it always looks pretty good after I finished and stood back to admire that rarest of sights for me — a sparkling clean car. But it won’t last long.