Candy Roads is what my friend calls the sultry female voice of his Honda’s navigation system.  Oozing sex appeal, Candy instructs Bret to turn left or right; to make legal u-turns; and just how far he is from his ultimate destination. Candy is helpful, easy on the ears, and never wrong.

Of course, Bret rarely accepts her guidance. As a result, we were “misguided” in our way to the airport.  “Why don’t you let candy help you, Bret?” we pleaded. He begrudgingly did so, and Candy expertly guided us to the perfect parking spot in short-term parking.

On the drive home, Candy told Bret that she would not be ignored. And now Bret is constantly hounded by the now liberated Candy, who continuously acts out in defiance.

Candy: There’s a nice flower shop on the right.

Candy: There’s a jewelry store on the left.

Candy: Family-counseling center two blocks North, Bret.

 

Bret, of course, refuses to acknowledge Candy. And Candy, in turn, “will not be ignored.” There’s a bunny boiling in a stew pot back home, me thinks.

In retaliation, Bret has begun programming Candy to locate the nearest used car lots and junk yards. Candy does not think this is funny.

Candy: Sarcasm is the sad-man’s crutch. Don’t push me away, Bret.

Bret: Die, bitch. 

Last I saw, he was driving towards the cliff, like Thelma & Louise — minus one of the vaginas.