Click and Clack kicked the squeaky ball of car maintenance across the sticky plateau of the airwaves brackish shine through clever clogs of crafty and dowdy manikins that stood quick and stiff against detection by delirious and defective, yet curious onlookers.
The belly laughs erupted with their clownish stroke against the pins that bound the screws, the gears, the nuts, the belts, the levers, the pistons and the valves and once instructions were completed, motion broke boldly into clarity that reverberated across the airwaves.
The murky under-body when plumbed revealed mechanisms swiftly sliding, swishing, scraping, sluicing, grinding, gashing as they pushed and pulled through their revolutions and the entire mess somehow propelled swiftly forward, if at all.
It was the common, ordinary need of the clever, knowledgeable, unsuspecting general populace that fueled the zany, zealous, wacky and wild, weekly laughter and gave birth to glimmers of truth that glistened gaily and alleviated the cramp, the crimp, the pain, the drain, the frustration, the emasculation in those trips, factious and fractious, to a mechanic.
Daylight broke through, light beamed clearly, knowledge was birthed and car woes resolved. But, alas, the sage has aged and now tired, retired. Who will bear the standard through the murky, bleak forest of car breakdowns in the dawn and the twilight? Who will lead the procession of cessation in progress to its rebirth and resolution, its restoration to forward movement? Or is there no end to our end by the end of the road? Alas and alack, without Click and Clack, we’re undone, undriveable, unmovable, stuck, stopped, clogged, clobbered; we’re finished. Dead by the side of the road.