I think I own the only car in the world that does not automatically turn off its lights when I park it and cut the engine. For some unknowable reason, that does not qualify my car as a clunker, and I was not eligible to put $4,500 of your money toward buying a clunker of the future.

Now, there is probably never a good time to have a dead battery, but I think I found the worst place to have zero juice: a modern gas station.

On a recent golf outing, Eldon, the guy with the biggest van, drove us all to the course. We met him at the truck stop out on the interstate, parked our cars and loaded our clubs into his van. After four and a half hours of asking myself why I play this game, after four and a half hours of being told, “You lifted up,” “You stepped out of it,” “You bailed out on that one,” “Your grip is all wrong,” Eldon finally got us back to our cars. All I kept thinking was: Waterboard a man and you’ve tortured him for a day; teach a man to golf and you’ve tortured him for life. Back in the luxury of being alone in my own vehicle, I would at least not have to listen to any more advice from people who played worse golf than I did.