Domestic Cars Masquerading As Imports

The broke-ass Jeep Cherokee putters menacingly up the driveway after a prolonged absence.  I greet it like an old friend and give kisses on either cheek, or in this case, either fender.

(I will spend the next five minutes cleaning up the Kraft Asian Toasted Sesame Reduced Fat Salad Dressing all over the rug after my mad dash to the window.  Don’t tell Wolfgang.)