"Hey, I was going to borrow your car for a bit, but I can't get it out of park." It was my sister calling, fearing that my '95 Volvo had once again broken down, this time before it was even out of the driveway.

"Turn the key all the way to start, and then turn it back about half a centimeter."

"Got it! You need a new car."

The sentiment has been expressed by family, friends, and auto technicians for the past five years. The car I inherited from my too-cool-for-a-car, city-residing brother was bought with the insurance money from his twice-totaled Toyota, intended for his local use. When the car first pulled into our driveway, it had 203,015 miles on it. Now, five years later, it has 203,015 miles on it.

Plan on driving more than an hour away? Forget about it. That's just asking for trouble. The odometer is broken.

In addition to beach gear, an air mattress, an inflatable beer pong table, and a collection of old lifeguarding attire among other miscellany, the trunk of the ‘Vo is strewn with spare parts and tools for its resuscitation. This car could gain sainthood based on its miraculous resurrections alone. Prominently featured among the toolbox, jumper cables, and containers of oil, coolant, and power steering fluid is the affectionately named Swedish Meatball's aesthetic feature: the spoiler. Or as I refer to it, the little thing that goes across the back of the trunk that makes the car look cool.

What is the car's best aesthetic feature doing inside of the trunk?

It's broken.

Apparently when your car breaks down and you attempt to push it out of the road, hand placement is ideal. While pushing a 3,000-pound car on the back of the trunk itself hopefully leads to success, using the plastic spoiler just leads to a large piece of snapped plastic in your hand. And a lot of explaining to your dad. And a newfound inclusion of rainwater to the odd collection of things in the trunk due to new screw-sized holes where the spoiler used to be.

When I take trips more than 30 minutes away, I have to have a plan in place for the Swedish Meatball's potential decision to take a short break by shutting off in the middle of I-95. Plan on driving more than an hour away? Forget about it. That's just asking for trouble. Checking out the engine when the car inevitably overheats and shuts off is more trouble than it should be, however.

The hood latch is broken.

The hood latch is so broken that my dad had to remove the front grill to open the hood to inspect yet another broken part. He insists he securely replaced the grill, yet two days after opening the hood he noticed it was missing. Somewhere, my Volvo's front grill is lying on the side of the road, undoubtedly hoping to one day be reunited with its steel partner of eighteen years.

Hey, at least I've got a sunroof.

Oh wait.

The sunroof is broken.

No matter how many times my friends complain about the lack of air conditioner or the fact that the windows only go halfway down, creating a dark leather upholstered sauna, I will defend my Swedish Meatball to its death.

Which should be in about a couple of months, hopefully followed by yet another miraculous resurrection.

Follow Points in Case on Twitter.

Join The Second City writing classes on satire, sketch, and TV - 10% off with code PIC.

Check out events at The Satire and Humor Festival in NYC March 22-24.