Furthermore

Furthermore, I hate car lots like most people hate a bad case of the flu. Give me the chills, aches and nausea, baby, if it means I don't have to talk to those guys -- the ones who in high school would've shoved me in my locker but now suddenly! are just plain nice guys who want to sell me a quality automobile, ma'am.

I'm sure there are really cool car salespeople around. I know so for a fact, actually. My ol' friend Darby. You don't know him, but he's a car man. And he's a good egg.

But when Dave mentions going to a car lot -- just to see what they have! just for fun! -- I make him promise he'll do all the talking, that we won't get out of our car unless we absolutely love some other car on the lot, and that when I've had enough "knock your socks off!" and "wheels and deals" and all those other annoying car ads, we can go home.

You know, I really like walking. It's so ... free.

And, yes, I realize how irrational I'm being.