Go Camping with your Cutlass!Within a few weeks I found countless other special, though not appealing, features that did not affect the overall performance. The cloth ceiling began to hang down when the duct tape ripped the foam insulation off the roof, creating a sensual canopy like the bed of a millionaire. A bent steering column caused troubles starting my car. My key chain sat in my pocket like the dungeon master's of medieval days. There were three keys to the car; one to unlock the doors (actually only the driver side door, because the backdoors had no locks, and the passenger side was broken), I needed yet another key to start the engine, and the third was used to unlock my gas tank. Knowing when to fill up the gas tank was difficult. Hitting any bump caused the gas meter to bounce hitting both the top and bottom of the gauge. I believe surveyors could set the car on the hill and judge the relative angle of the slope based on the gas pointer's direction. Though the car had terrible mileage, I, luckily, did not have to fill it up much, because instead of designing an efficient car the manufacturers instead decided to bolt the largest container possible to act as a gas tank. I am not sure what Oldsmobile used to make the tank, but the backseat reeked, and often dripped, of gasoline for weeks after I filled up my tank. "I like the way gas smells, I wouldn't mind the smell," a person may state. I once drove across the state, but had to stop halfway because my friend was blacking out from the fumes. It was not the smell that bothers you, it's your own will to live.
As the car was rotting around me I found numerous gifts left by the previous owner: a bag of loud fireworks, a cane, and a street sign. I also found more offensive treasures: a couple bottles of leaking vodka, numerous cigarette burns, a rusty knife, four bullet casings, and mysterious stains. This was made even worse when a vile friend of the drug dealer approached me to report, "They fucked in there all the time." Thanks, meth-addict.
Every time I looked through the car I found brand new trash left by the previous owner, but never a single thing I needed. When the front tire burst within the first week and I attempted to change it, I found that the special tool to remove the deluxe spoke covered hubcap was missing. My largest fear, other than the car randomly exploding while I drove to the store, was getting pulled over by the police. I had nightmares of police unpacked five kilos of cocaine while insatiable drug-dogs bark in the background.
The biggest disappointment would be the exciting features that ended up being trash (or trashed.) It was the bench seat that was most aggravating. I expected the front of my car to be a comfortable couch as I traveled around the city. However, the back of the passenger seat was broken, causing it to lean back at the same angle as a chaise lounge. It was like driving through the downtown in a Victorian Parlor. The seat was held to the floor by four metal bolts, but three of them broke off long ago. Since one corner sat high and majestic while the other three sank into the rusting frame, the entire seat was tiling towards the back right side. My friends constantly complained about the chair forcing them to lean against the door. The car, with ruined shock absorbers, along with the seat would project the passenger's body and the entire bench seat into the air whenever I hit a speed bump, or a pothole, or anything. I told them they could sit in the back if they wanted, but the fear of affixation by gas kept them riding with me.
"Really, Holmes!" I dropped into my seat, shocked. "You are remarkably tall! What are you, six foot six? Six foot eight?"
As the 19th century diver approaches a giant clam, a flash of brilliant golden light flares from within the shell. I emerge in a swirl of bubbles and do the timeless universal underwater hand signals for the following: ZODIAC KILLER, KKK, BLOOD OF YOUTH
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