Remain Champagne - AN OPEN LETTER TO THAT GUY WHO KEEPS HONKING HIS CAR HORN IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD

Yup! There you are! I can hear you right now. Honking your horn. That horn’s like a transponder! I know exactly where you are! You’re out front on my street. Now you’re one street east of mine. Now one street west. I can hear you wherever you are. That horn you got is something else. It let’s everyone know your precise location. I thank you for your style. I thank you for your flare.

I thank you for honking your Godfather theme car horn several times a day.

I wonder if you even know what it is you have. That your horn is making music from a quite iconic film. Because something tells me you don’t know. You honk it so much that I’m starting to get the impression when you went car horn shopping you just listened to a bunch of things like La Cucaracha and Yankee Doodle and Reveille and what-not and then heard the Godfather one and thought: “Hmmm. That one’s kinda weird and definitely the most annoying. I’ll take it!” And then the salesman said: “Oh, the Godfather one?” And you were like: “Huh? Yeah, whatever. I want the sad one, whichever that one is.”

What happens when you people with musical car horns get into a serious situation and really need to honk a horn? Like, a real horn? Like, what happens when you’re about to hit a pedestrian who’s in the wrong and they have no idea you’re there because their back is turned. You lay on the horn and instead of a stern, clear F-sharp, they hear the theme from Dallas. How would you like to go out like that? How would you like to have the last thing you ever heard to be When Irish Eyes Are Smiling? before becoming the hood ornament on a pink, low-riding Chevy? Embarrassing.

But that Godfather horn you got, man. The sound of it is plain sad. Every time you honk it, I think of movies that last for two hours and fifty-seven minutes.

I remain

Champagne