Drop It Like It's Hot

Remember when I wrote that super long post about names and what's in a name and how my cars have always lived up to their names and then I ended the post with saying we had named our new car Ghetto Baby?

Well. We made the right choice. Our car is a thug.

Just last week after church Tad and I were at the local Dunkin' Donuts, enjoying our coffee and sweets when I happened to glance at Ghetto Baby sitting in the parking lot.

And wouldn't you know it. The temporary license plate was gone. Gone. As though Ghetto Baby was all, "I ain't be needin' this! What you think I am? I'm'a bust a cap in the Piggs a try to get at me!"

"Oh no," was our obvious reaction. And then, "What are we going to do?"

Clearly, the plate had blown away on the way to or from church. So clearly it lay beside the highway. 5, maybe 10 miles out. Which meant clearly we were stuck. On a Sunday. With no license plate. On the other side of town.

Carefully, cautiously, we made our way home, feeling like fugitives on the run. I went as back-roads as I could, trying to keep cars behind me at all times so that OTHER cars, COP cars couldn't claim the spot. When we did finally pass a cop (it was inevitable, if you knew the roads we took and also where we were headed), he, thankfully, was too busy chatting on his cell phone to notice.

So, we made it. Safe and sound. And our little Ghetto Baby was able to get his thrills in for the time being.

Or her thrills. (We kind of think it's asexual).

What can I say? It ain't easy being gangsta.