I’m 2692, well that’s the name they gave me when they put me on the delivery truck.   I’m a golf cart, so to speak, I live and I work at the airport.  Of all the damn luck, I drive this sweaty repairman around and haul his grimy tools on this concrete jungle.  When he leaves, probably to go to a golf course, I get an electric cord shoved, well you know, and I cool my jets in a dingy garage.   Gosh I’d like to get out of here and see how my brother and sister are doing, they were the lucky ones.  They ride in style, they are named 14 and 23. Don’t they have cool names?  I hear they get to see green grass, and wander around in a friendly park with new riders every day, carrying golf bags like we were born to do.  Well maybe its not all that friendly, I understand they hear their share of swearing too.  But then they also get to hear laughter and silliness as their passengers sip away at fun beverages… ahh and the nice smell of a good cigar too!  Wow, I smell the sweaty repairman and jet engine exhaust, cough, wheez… geez.  I work… they play, how come they still call me a golf cart, named 2692?