I often get approached by people who insist that I need to try new things. “Hey,” they tell me. “You need to try new things.” I think most of these people are trying to sell me drugs. While I appreciate the offer, I think it would be wise for me to lay off the “smack” (or “meth” or “Drano” or whatever hip drug the kids are doing nowadays) until my tolerance reaches a point where I no longer get a buzz off of a handful of marshmallows.

But I think these folks have a point. I should try new things. Unfortunately, it’s hard for me to find time for new things, as it generally conflicts with my busy schedule of sitting on the couch watching TV. That’s why my internship with a Minneapolis ad agency was such a blessing this summer. Everyday I was trying new things. I was relearning how to write ads, how to extend my lunch break without getting caught, and even how to drive.

One day this summer the owners of the agency asked me to accompany them to an important business meeting in Forest City. (I was as shocked as you. I didn’t think anything important ever happened in northern Iowa either.) They had some work they needed to finish on the ride from Minneapolis. As the most expendable member of the agency, I was chosen to be their chauffeur.

Now I’m not normally one to brag, but I did an outstanding job as their chauffeur. From the time we left the office, I performed my duties with perfection, and I continued to do so all the way until we got into the car. That’s when things turned a little sour. I’ve mentioned in previous columns that my knowledge of cars is minimal, but at first glance this vehicle had all the makings of a typical car: four tires, a steering wheel, a “go” pedal and a “stop” pedal.

But just before I started the engine, a chill ran up my spine as I noticed something I had never before seen in a car. The superfluous third pedal. I tried to collect myself. It could have been a mistake. There was no need to panic. I didn’t freak out when I found an extra pickle in my Whopper a couple days earlier. “You do know how to drive a stick, don’t you?” my boss asked. Of course! A stick-shift!

Things were starting to make sense, but I had no idea how to drive one of these so-called “manual transmissions.” I had seen them on TV and in the movies, however, and I did own a ten-speed bike once. It couldn’t be that hard, could it? “I think I have to go to the bathroom,” I replied. But as an intern, my thoughts about certain subjects, including those involving the capacity of my own bladder, were unimportant.

What was important is that I learn how to drive the car. So after a thorough lesson, which lasted no more than 30 seconds, we were off to Iowa. Sort of. I may not have had much experience dealing with vehicles of the three-pedal variety, but if you want my opinion (which you should; this is the opinion section, you know) stick-shifts shouldn’t even be considered cars.

Cars are designed to actually take you places, whereas the primary function of a stick-shift is to jerk back and forth while making loud grinding noises similar to the sound of a fork being stuck in a garbage disposal (but much less pleasant). Slowly, and not very surely, I started to grasp some of the basics of driving a stick. These included up-shifting, down-shifting and that the ideal place to kill the engine while making a left turn is in the middle of a busy intersection with traffic speeding towards you from both directions.

Things might have gone more smoothly with different circumstances but I had the added pressure of having the two men who paid my salary (or at least would have paid my salary, if I actually had one) heckling me from the back seat. As for the work they were supposed to be doing, I’m not sure how much they actually got done. They seemed to be focusing most of their time and energy trying not to wet themselves in laughter as they watched me perform such brilliant maneuvers as shifting from fifth gear to reverse at 60 or killing the engine three times in less than 10 seconds at the gas station.

Granted, it was pretty humorous, but if you were sitting in the back seat while I was doing irreparable damage to your car, would you be laughing? Of course not. But these were the savvy owners of a Minneapolis ad agency. Having thousands of dollars worth of damage done to a car is no big deal to gentlemen with such clout. Especially if the car isn’t theirs. “Having your car destroyed by young punk interns is bad for business.”

That was their motto.

That’s why they had the insight to borrow the car from one of their employees who was still toiling away in Minnesota. And in the end all eventually went well. Miraculously, we made it to Iowa and back without the car the car blowing up and without my driving making anyone sick. However, the same does not hold true for the meal we had at Hardee’s when we got back. While I stated earlier that I advocate trying new things, a Monster Burger from Hardee’s isn’t one of them.