For 2 hours today I was convinced that Ted Ginn Jr. had stolen my car.

That's right. I said it. After spending a refreshing night at OSU on Saturday my passengers and I arrived on Northwood avenue to climb in the car and grab some food. However we ran across one problem...the car was nowhere to be found. After a sufficent amount of headscratching, (hangovers slow mental awareness you know,) we summized that the car must have been towed. The next logical step of course would be to call around to some local tow companies and find my baby. After calling the wonderful people of Shamrock towing, I was told that. although they didn't have my car, I could call the city towing database and find if any company in the city had hauled it in. After calling this omnipotent guru of parking mishaps I learned that you can't find out shit if you don't have your license plate number or vehicle ID number, both of which are conveiniently placed ON the car. So after coercing my little cousin into going to my home back in Cambridge and searching for the title to my car I was finally able to squeeze some information out of that soft-spoken hussy behind the reception desk. I learned that my car was not reported as towed. Oh shit.

My mind is racing at this point. Has my car been stolen? They don't FIND stolen cars! Everyone knows this! I was beginning to make a mental list of everything in the vehicle that would be placed on the insurance claim and just how badly I would exaggerate the price of each item.

It was at this point that the unthinkable happened. Ted Ginn Jr. drove by. I shit you not. The all-American speedster just meandered on by in a truck with the window down. I had a clear view and he was easily identifiable. That was Ted Ginn Jr.

Overcome with both anger and starstruck surprise, I immediately thought of the only reason Ted Ginn would drive by right then and there. He was checking on the scene of his crime. Teddy had stolen my car and was starting to rub our faces in it. These are the bold moves you make when you can run a 4.1 40-yard dash. I'm a Buckeye fan, but if Theodore thought I wouldn't turn him in he was sorely mistaken.

After hiking down High St. to Kayla and Janielle's room, we examined the day's events thus far over brunch, (in a dining hall so it was extra fancy,) and decided to call the Columbus police. They urged us to call the impound office. That makes sense....I guess somebody didn't drink themselves silly last night. Upon calling said impound office they told me that they did infact have my car and could pick it up anytime I wanted. As long as it was before 2 o'clock and I paid them 150 dollars. At the moment that sounded like a deal. Ted Ginn Jr. was off the hook....for now.

After the valient Sean Adams drove me to the impound lot, located in beautiful South Columbus by the way, I was able to traverse the mountainous terrain. If you're unfamilar with an impound lot, think the Mad Max movies crossed with an industrial farm. Row after row of brokendown cars being combed through by foreigners....and the Subaru was stuck in row 71, approximately 3.2 miles away.

It was true. The Outback had been institutionalized and has the sweet prison tattoo to prove it. I just hope that one day she can forgive me and forget the brutal car-wash raping I'm sure she was subjected to by the rougher, more experienced vehicles.