An omen?

Poop, poopie dew

A flock of angry birds bombed Kathleen's shiny new V-dub during the very first errand of its young life this morning, scoring several direct hits. They splattered the windshield, the hood and the roof of the yellow Beetle 12, showing total disregard for it and the dignity of its new owner.
Peering between windshield blotches, she navigated home. There her husband offered comfort and a complete windexing, bringing the condition of the bug to "like new," before the neighbors get their first looks at our baby.

Heard of Elvis, not Anka

It was not the first indiginity Kathleen suffered in the new car. Kathleen has a relative whose name happens to be Tex Ritter. Last night our young car salesman/geek was busy downloading Kathleen's personal phone directory into the new car when "Tex Ritter" scrolled by on the navigation screen.
"Do you believe that I know a person by the name of Tex Ritter," she asked Jared with a twinkle.
She drew a blank look and silence from the youngster.
"You know, he was a cowboy, a country western singer," Stan prompted.
"No, I've never heard of him," Jared said, still wishing to please. "Do you know him?"
"No. We don't know HIM. HE's dead. . . Never mind," Stan concluded, head shaking, as we went on to something else we clearly were going to be too old to readily understand.

Wider and longer, it's harder to park.