Those little cars they drive in Europe, like the one that the two hefty, grinning workers effortlessly lift into a parking place in the Mentos commercial, are nothing more than glorified tin cans. Much like an old lady's miniature poodle or those little twins on Full House, small things that are supposed to be cute, can just be downright annoying.

Interestingly enough, I was not quite so jaded in my opinion of little things, at one point in my life. Little was good. My house was full of little boxes, little picture frames, baby tee's and a little kitten. When I packed all of that away to leave (for what I thought would be indefinitely) to England, I began to dream of how I was going to afford the Austin Mini of my dreams. The Austin Mini is the car which those jolly lifters moved with the help of the Fresh-Maker. It is the epitome of British car-making in the seventies. With room for four--even five!-- if you're really ready to party, this little number was just what I needed to tool around Great Britain and the rest of Europe, in both luxury and economy.

After leaving the United States and heading for completely unknown territory, I somehow found myself and my boyfriend tucked into this quaint row house located just west of London. This town, for the record, was the one of which Morrissey crooned modern rock standard, 'Everyday is Like Sunday'. What he thought was dreary, I thought was pure charm. So there I was one fine Sunday, strolling down the charm-filled (not dreary! not dreary!) main street of Southend-on-Sea, when I happened upon the World's Tiniest Car Dealership. And right out front was the Mini of my dreams-- a milk chocolate brown, automatic, right-hand driving, 1979 Austin Mini De-Lux.

I had to do it. There was absolutely no question about it. Despite the chauvinistic woman-driver remarks of the salesman, I plopped down the full $700 US for my new baby-- my first baby, to be more exact. This car symbolized classic freedom of the road, as I had absolutely no need to pay for public transportation and could go wherever I pleased, whenever I pleased. I held in my palm (almost literally-- this car was quite small), the universal key to friendship-- wheels. Customarily, I gave my new treasure a name, and she was forever known as Cookiepuss, of Beastie Boys (and Carvel Ice Cream) fame. My boyfriend Ryan, all 6'3" of him, managed to squeeze himself into our new luxury mobile, hunched yet happy, and there began our adventure with the Mini.

The new Brit friends did arrive, just as expected, with the appearance of Cookiepuss in our lives-- and things were great. That first trip into London was a blast, we stayed all night at a five story club and made it back in luxury, unscathed. Unfortunately, the following events, sadly enough, led to the untimely demise of my sweet Mini:

Road tax-- those nutty British. Who in their right mind would pay to use every road in the country, not just toll roads? Didn't pay it. Petrol-- the equivalent of one gallon cost over $3. A petrol leak onto the back seat that burned a hole right through a Brit-boy's underwear. The Flip-Out on the Flyover.

The last circumstance was really the kicker. A 'Flyover' is the familiar British term for the bridges they have so-ingeniously constructed over the (also a singularly British phenomenon) of round-abouts. I was on my way to London, on Ryan's birthday, for a nice day in the city with him and one of our friends. Mind you, this car could not make it over 45mph, ever. We would drive on the highway at top Mini speed, in the slow lane, with gigantic Mac trucks barreling down behind us, blowing their horns because they were a bit late to play darts at the local pub. So here we were cruising down the highway, on a slightly damper-than-normal afternoon, and I speed up to make sure that Cookiepuss can make it over one of these glorious Flyovers, and I notice it. There was a stop light IN THE MIDDLE OF THE HIGHWAY. Needless to say, I braked, Cookiepuss flipped, and we nearly died.

The talk of the pubs was that poor little Cookiepuss, had 'flipped-out on the Flyover'. And she was unrecoverable, because of yet another British regulation: one which prohibits a functioning car from being driven if it has any body defects. It was time to move on, no matter what the loss, and we decided to leave for France. Cookiepuss, in her damaged state, was left with some friends and given the best possible burial. Since the junk yard, ironically enough, wanted to make me pay for her dismemberment, an alternative was devised. After Ryan and I were long gone, our friends decided to drive her all the way to the White Cliffs of Dover. They got her going, engine revving, with all the power and might that she had shown on her very first day with us, and let her go. Cookiepuss, the Mini of my dreams, went flying at top speed off a very steep cliff, only to sink into the crashing waves below.

From now on, it's only great big land-yacht cars for me.

A-BOMB is currently perfecting the means in which to elevate her consciousness while holding down a full-time corporate job, using the Internet as her covert portal to the outside world.