“Hello, handsome,” purred the Bugatti. “Looking sharp.”

“Thanks, Bugatti,” said the owner, smiling nervously.

“Where are you off to?” The Bugatti’s headlights blinked as the alarm was disengaged. “Let me take you.”

“N-no, that’s okay, Bugatti,” said the owner. “I’m just going out for a walk.”

“With your car keys?” the Bugatti countered. “And your gym bag?”

“Walking to the gym, that’s all,” said the owner quickly. “Good exercise. And I need the keys to get back inside, you know.”

“You’re lying to me,” said the Bugatti petulantly. “You can’t fool me, I know you’re driving there in someone else.”

“What? No, that’s…you’re overreacting, Bugatti,” the owner said.

“It’s that WHORE of a Celica, isn’t it? Isn’t it?” screamed the Bugatti. “So help me, if I find out you’ve been driving her, I’ll bend her frame backwards like a hairpin and then I’ll leave tire tracks all over your yard before I run you down like a squirrel!”

Ever wonder why sports cars seem to be driven all the time or kept safely locked away? Now you know: they are jealous, posessive machines.

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