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As I announced earlier today , I was forced to buy a new car this weekend after my old one (whose name may or may not have been Bruce) finally needed more repairs than it was worth. The whole experience of buying a car was not as terrible as I expected, and I'm of the opinion that the days of slick, cunning car salesman are nearly extinct, save for the Billy Fuccillos of the world (I'm assuming). It also conjured up memories of the time I went to a Volkswagen dealership in North Carolina while the softball team and I were on our spring break trip in 2015. I was bored and needed to kill some time, so I decided to make up a story about me becoming a student at UNC in a few months and probably needing a new car. ( You can read that recollection here ) Anyway, as a financially-strapped young man who somehow went to bed Saturday poorer than he awoke, I realized that the process of buying my new car wasn't nearly as stressful as pretending to buy that VW Golf was. I w...

For those who haven't heard, I recently had to say goodbye to a friend I've known for 12 years, and who's been especially important to me over the last seven. I am, of course, referring to my car. “Not with a bang, but with a whimper.” pic.twitter.com/3ZuDnjXMsX — Matt Birt (@BirtMC) October 19, 2017 “I promise. I will never let go, [old Focus]. I’ll never let go.” *proceeds to drive off the lot, dropping the old Focus to its icy death* pic.twitter.com/3xdFz0ofnv — Matt Birt (@BirtMC) October 23, 2017 Yes, the khaki/gold/tan/beige-colored Focus that I bought off of my dad at 16 years old is no more. It wasn't much of a surprise, as the thing has been showing its age for years. The underside is rustier than Brett Favre's arm, the air conditioning spews more hot air than Rex Ryan, and there's enough duct tape on it to stick DJ Khaled to a wall for a week. But I can't help but feel a little sad that the car responsible for so many memories is now...

Editor's note: This story is best enjoyed using the voice of someone pretending to narrate a Lord of the Rings movie. Once upon a time, a young manager was summoned to take a long journey through the mountains. He, along with 22 brave warriors, left the comforts of home late one February morn and went south to combat ferocious clans throughout the Mud Foot Region. Not yet arrived at the first field of battle, more than half of the warriors fell ill after a ruthless innkeeper poisoned their dinners. The town of Franklout proved unwelcoming to the incoming visitors, perhaps to give the nearby Cullowhee an advantage in the days to come. After the fight saw the weary, weakened, short-handed travelers succumb to a quick and early defeat, they ventured east, where they heard a horde of Spartans were preparing for their arrival. That afternoon in Boroughgreen, on a Wednesday in which Whabamming had not yet passed, the manager filled up on hearty soup and bread before heading off...