Stuff.... in These titles mean nothing.

My new car:

Quote from Toward the End of Time by John Updike:
On Saturday Gloria directed Jeremy and me to dig up the Siberian iris that has flourished on the stony slope behind the two scrawny pear trees to the right of the driveway. We attached the clump first with shovels, which met with too many stones, and then with the mattock, which I swung with powerful effect. Jeremy suddenly exclaimed and darted his hand down to seize a garden snake liquidly wriggling away through the grass. The little snake's undulant motion and the sheen of its polychrome scales were so beautiful it shocked us both to see its tail end was mangled and raw, ozzing muddy reptile blood. A shovel or mattock in my hands had caught it, a blow from the heedless Heaven, as it coiled in concealed innocence. Jeremy put the snake gently back into the grass, and it slithered off with unimpaired fluency, but I thought that a snake was not a ribbon that could be snipped anywhere: it had an anatomy, intestines and an anus, and no more than I could it live long with its nether portion crushed. I hate it when our human attempts to inflict over upon the land brings death and pain and mutilation to these innocents, whose ancestors enjoyed the earth for tens of millions of years before the naked ape appeared with his technology and enraging awareness of his own sin. I blamed Gloria, for having us remove this harmless, thriving clump of iris because it offended her frosty, simplifying eyes. Who are we to say what is a weed or a pest? Now the pretty snake, stricken in its perfection, must lie in some crevice feeling its slender body dam and slowly fail; a glaze of nothingness will close upon the little jewel of its unblaming brain.

And a table, Just for the heck of it: