You’d like to be able to fly to the Epcot center, but you’re a treasure
hunter on a budget, and after you bought a metal detector and a nice sack to keep your swag in, there’s no room left in your budget for plane tickets. What you need is a more conventional, non-flight method of transportation, and ever since your dad spoke of your mom using a train/tunnel metaphor, you’ve never liked that mode of transportation either.

Fortunately, there’s still enough money left in the budget for you to fill
your car with gas, and after filling up your thoroughly used car, you’re on
the road to the Epcot Center.

About seventy miles down the road, it occurs to you that you have no idea how far away the Epcot center is. Still, you’re pretty sure it’s in a
south-easterny direction, and as far as you’re concerned, that’s all you
need to know. After all, if you really knew just how far you were from it,
it would be a serious buzzkill.

After a couple more hours, boredom starts to rear its ugly head, and your mind is soon set a’ wandering. You shake it off quickly, remembering what your Driver’s Ed teacher said about highway hypnosis, “the boring killer.”
You scan the interior of your car for something to draw your attention away from your daydreaming. You spot the treasure map in the front seat, so you figure you’ll just go over it for a little while to keep you occupied. You just finish going over the extremely tiny instructions in time to look up and see that you’re about to drive right into the back of the semi trailer in front of you. You hit the brakes just in time, and look around for another, safer diversion.

Your reach for your radio, hoping to find a decent station amidst the
cornucopia of evangelism, country music, and worst of all, talk radio.
After a few moments of rapid knob-twisting, you become frustrated, as your radio isn’t producing any sound at all. "Great, my speakers are busted," you think to yourself. What you don’t recall, however, is that your car doesn’t have a radio, and you’ve just been twisting the cigarette lighter back and forth.

Your next angry twist dislodges the lighter, and it tumbles into your lab.
At first, you simply curse your luck for having a radio with a busted knob
and dismiss the burning sensation as just your old case of jock itch trying to resurface, but then a wisp of smoke wafts into your nose. You realize
that you’ve been immunized against Smoking Crotch Syndrome (SCM), and that your lap really is on fire!

You swat furiously at your lap and wiggle around trying to knock the
cigarette lighter away. To your credit, you succeed, but your spastic
flailing has pushed your foot well onto the accelerator, and soon after you curse yourself for being so stupid, you slam into that semi. Stupid.

START OVER, FIRE CROTCH!