I’ve got the obligatory Hendrix perm and the inevitable pinhole burns
Now all down the front of my favorite satin shirt
I’ve got nicotine stains on my fingers, I’ve got a silver spoon on a chain
Got a grand piano to prop up my mortal remains…
Pink Floyd, Nobody Home
It’s the 1970s. You are a swinging real estate broker with a taste for Popov and an itchy lead foot that you hope can replace your desperate need for Viagra and blow jobs.
Or, you’re the owner of a chain of greasy fried chicken joints (with accessible marquee signs) and some shittastic “family” restaurants. You’re not getting any from the wife, your kids are brats, and you need somet action for the weeknights, before crawling into your pampered 1979 Continental Town Coupe (“a future collectible”) to impress the crowd at church. (And get some fake forgiveness.)
For you, it’s the 1977 Corvette. Top of the line performance from an American car. Style and luxury. What you don’t realize now is that the car will kill you. It may be because car + booze + tree = fail. Like so:
The infamous flat-out/DUI on Sheffield. Where the real estate agent who sold you your house DUIs his Corvette around a tree at about 90 mph about 100 yards from your house. Interrupting you in mid-grope in the dark at the one and only party in your basement. Bummer. Oh, and too bad about the dead guy, too.
It may also be because your Bible-thumping hides your secret life fucking your confidential Italian secretary in the booty call apartment you rent for her in the next town over. Divorce seems like a better choice than telling God “You can’t fire me! I quit!” (suicide), but whatever. Your choice, man.
I blame the ‘Vette, because polyester and fiberglass are more real than Tony Manero or a God you fear and lie to.
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