He said the A-bodies would be the most successful GM cars ever. Why was he wrong?
- No v. 1.0 models exist any longer. There are plenty of 1.5s like this – well, more than zero – and you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a 2.0. Still, Cadillac Escalade. Boom, roasted.
- This? AYFKM? Yellow on the outside, brown on the inside? Bizarro world dog turd is what that is.
Chocolate velvet on the inside
- Nevermind that Papa Don drove one like this – he got the employee discount, or, more likely, they paid him to take this shitbox.
- Nevermind too, that Phid introduced me to the song Delirious in the 1982 version of this car.
- CMU road trips.
Mmmm winter. Time to party in the student ghetto. Pod knows of one. Ever the nonchalant one, he sidles up to all the pretty girls at school as if he’s known them forever. Phid, on the other hand, has more of an end game approach. He gets more, earlier; Pod’s are more loyal down the road. They brought you because: you’re buds, there’s more than enough to go around, you can be wingman for both and maybe one of the babes has a desperate friend or an appropriately low standards.
There ARE plenty of girls. Wow! And they’re so nice and friendly when you’re not trying to hump their leg if they say “hi.” Because you’re not trying to dry hump them into any corners and just talking to them like people, it’s a great party and that one chick seems to be more entertained than most. Of course you have no chance. You’re the wingman, and in the time it took to remember that, Phid and the girl slipped out onto the porch for some groping.
So, be funny, and keep the housemates distracted while nature is taking its course just outside. ”Grab a brew. don’t cost nothin’” is no small consolation.
But all good things must end: the party, clearheadedness. If you need a pee break, or to barf up that pre-party Taco Johns, there’s bound to be a convenient car just aching to be your target. Just not the one you arrived in, please.
Yeah, you should totally come back tomorrow and hit on these girls. Or not.
when you’re an asshole scoutmaster, because:
I thought you pulled out already?
- if you’ve got to rear end somebody…
True Story: I rear-ended my scoutmaster at an intersection. This is a traffic accident and not anything else. Assholes. (I nearly killed Phid and cross traffic 5 years later at the same place. Something is karmically bad with Marquises (Marquii?) there.) The one cool thing this bastard ever did was to wait until after the campout was over to report the accident, which saved me a ticket. The other one cool thing is that he let me drive this bitch on a paper drive. FYI, you can’t drift these barges with 800 lbs. of old Playboys in the wayback, unless you have about 3x the engine power.
- plenty of room for “Chipmunks“
- Yellow? What. The. Fuck? What kind of dumbass would ever buy a yellow car? Wait. Nevermind.
It could happen
but not in his Corvair. It’s in this kind of shape.
No need to worry about Unsafe at Any Speed. “Ran when parked” is not a speed.
Somewhere in the wasted haze of being 20 something, I decided that maybe shit jobs at the car wash and the BK lounge were not all that satisfying. Pod and OG were finishing college. Phid’s college career was as off the tracks as mine, but we had community college bullshit. His job at one restaurant or another at least gave him enough cash to get the fuck out of his parents’ house, something I could only imagine.
In February 1985, I said goodbye to the Sparkle Buggy Wash. Too much wet shoes and frostbite. Not enough tip money or tit shots. Plus, having my ass handed to me every Thursday in Euchre kinda got old.
Karma: What do you wanna do with your life?
Me: I wanna rock
Karma: That song is a year old.
Karma:Can you play?
Me:French Horn, dude!
Me: Does Mutant Dog Fuckers count?
Karma:*throws help wanted ads (wrapped around a brick)* Continue reading
missing Phid’s bachelor party.
Q: What is coming to this dive with Madonna for bible reading, Scientology auditing 401K seminar late one night when she drops into town unannounced?
cable, HBO and intrusive housekeeping
HOLIDAY MOTEL – Your home for make up/first time/finally after six months of trying nookie.
P.S. I am sorry I missed the party. Still.
P.P.S. My alternative proved to be much less frustrating than a stripper would have been. So I had that going for me, which was good.
wire wheel covers say “I go fast – to the disco. Now go make me a drink”
Where I saw one: In front of Dr. Happy Finish’s office complex, down the street from the Polynesian Massage therapist.
mmm. pointy,yet soft. A rear spoiler would help add 10 hp
Nostalgia factor: -3/10
Baseline: 0, since I never personally owned one. -10 for being a Camaro. Woo hoo, Mustangs. Yee hah! -4 for being a Chevy. Fords rule, bitches. +1 for ditching the crappy fiberglass and the awful fender seams for plastic and slightly better seams; -1 for looking like shit compared to the original. +1 for looking less like a Vega, the second shittiest car ever. +1 for an ass that inspired a Benz. +1 for being cushy (for its era); -1 for being soft – whitewalls? Wire wheel covers? Where did I put my man purse? -1 for having no real connection to Ferrari or anything remotely Italian; +1 because that includes being unrelated to FIAT, shittiest Italian cars ever (pardon the redundancy). -1 for being unfixable without professional help. -1 for being a B&E magnet for crackheads.+10 for chauffeuring me on a fateful otherwise DUI or passed out in a gutter night or two. +2 for being an improvement over Pretty Boy‘s yellow, 3 speed manual with a front half vinyl roof ’75 version.