I need a monkey. A small one. A can-do monkey who doesn’t mind getting his paws soaked in white vinegar, dish soap and Windex. No. That’s not the Friday Businessman’s Lunch Special Cocktail at the COC Faculty secret underground speakeasy. It’s what I use to clean the windshield of my Prius.
There. I said it. For all the world to know. I. Own. A. Prius. And? The windshield that comes with it.
As you’ve probably noticed from the column mugshot — Four-figure 1,000-X O’Farrell hat, custom handmade for me in Durango, Colorado. Scared o’ Bears Ranch one-of-a-kind grizzly black diamond (aka, onyx) bolo tie. Fancy Sunday snap button cowboy shirt that would last three minutes on an actual dirt trail. Forever stern and disapproving How Far America Has Fallen stare. Championship rodeo antique belt buckle, boots, pants, tobacco pouch hanging out the pocket.
Alas, you can’t see the last four items from my wardrobe ensemble. The management at this newspaper feels that a full-length yard-tall mugshot of me is a waste of valuable space (as is the mug in “mugshot”). May I share something? It’s not very inspiring to see yourself in your local paper (259-1000 for subscriptions), year after year. Like a victim of some twisted magician’s trick, you don’t have a southern hemisphere. I run, frequently, to the closest bathroom mirror to see if my lower torso is intact.
Excuse me. Be right back. Phew. Still there.
Saddled with a O Bury Me Not On The Lone Prairie background, I’ve attracted the wrong kind of friends. They think they’re funny. They’re not. We’ll mosey on horseback. I try NOT to bring a riding date riding because, invariably, someone will ask, because of the Prius, if I’ll be riding sidesaddle this morning, and, if so, (while grinning at my cowgirl companion) did I intend to stay on the full eight seconds?
Date runs back to Prius, sobbing. It’s a sore subject.
I mean, it’s a great car. I can fold down the backseat and fit my saddle and tack with enough room left over for a cow dog, his water bowl, bale of hay and a small chifferobe.
Those who know me will attest I can hold my own in the Great Open Purple Sage Spaces Insult Department, although, it’s hitting below the belt buckle to point out I get nearly 50 mpg and they have to work six hours overtime at the Costco Feedlot just to pay for the 0.0000006 mpg gas it takes for them to make it, downhill, from garage to front cattle gate.
Nope. I can certainly handle the time-honored exchange of good-natured insults with the crustiest of vaqueros although bringing a companion (female) along for a trail ride is as frequent as the return of Haley’s Comet. Why? I don’t like people, even tres hubba-hubba ones, sitting in the front seat of my Prius, sobbing. It steams up the window with hard-to-clean molecules of mascara.
As my daughter, when she was 4, once observed about an overweight woman with too much make-up: “She put the ‘scare’ in ‘mascara.’” Cripes I love that kid.
Getting the streaks off the inside of a Prius windshield is impossible. Can’t be done. After untold hours, bending, writhing, stretching, grunting, groaning, standing on your head under the steering wheel and wincing in pain, you may THINK you’ve cleaned your windshield. But, no.
Come dawn, dusk or glare of a nighttime shopping center light, there they appear. Streaks. Smudges. Indelible stains from cowgirl mascara tear fumes. Just by my attempting to clean my windshield, I’ve only made it worse. It looks like someone smeared it with a bear-fat-smeared beach towel.
Oh. Coincidence? I’ve an old drover pal. That’s his wife’s aboriginal name: Bear Fat Smeared Beach Towel. We call her, “Betty.” It’s on their marriage license. Betty’s ancestors all hail from Switzerland, not North America, so don’t send letters.
I’ve watched YouTube videos on how the “Pros” clean the inside of windshields. They use squeegees, microfiber clothes, special Rolls Royce mink drying hand mittens. The problem? Short of removing your Prius windshield, there’s no way on You Know Who’s green Earth a human can reach 85% of this unreachable glass.
It’s the angles. Sitting in a Prius is like relaxing all the way back in one of those 10-ton atomic living room recliners. The nimblest of yoga instructors need the Jaws Of Life just to get out of the car. Forget about reaching the lowest spot where dashboard meets glass.
Which is why I need a monkey. Not a big one. Certainly, not a gorilla. From the Department of Unintended Consequences, a gorilla would eventually notice he’s 300 times stronger than me, get huffy and suggest, “Why don’t YOU clean your OWN !#%#$¡ windshield?” While I am blessed that I’ve never lived under the tyranny of an HOA, I imagine they have endless rules about 500-pound great apes in flipflops and a torn OHTANI Dodger T-shirt, playing a Monkees’ CD real loud by the human-waste-rich public swimming pool and washing a car. On the other hand, what HOA board member with a Barney Fife voice is dumb enough confront a gorilla and squeak: “You can’t clean your Prius here!! That’ll be a $2,750 fine!!!”
I guess if the HOA officer is small enough, and, he would be after my gorilla is through with him, said ape could use the offending condo official as a chamois.
Still. I don’t think a gorilla could get to those hard-to-reach corners.
Which is why I need a monkey. With small hands. And, unlike my cowboy pals at the stable, a not-too-short attention span to finish the job.
Maybe I’ll get lucky. Maybe the next fetching and good-hearted barrel racer I bring along for a trail ride, while she’s drying her eyes, she could touch up the streaks on my Prius’ windshield …
John Boston, with more than 100 writing awards, is Earth’s most prolific humorist and satirist. Look for “Naked Came the Novelist” his long-awaited sequel to “Naked Came the Sasquatch, coming this month where books are sold online.
