Sometimes, I must confess, I really miss my 1968 Rambler American, even with its leaky windshield and underpowered straight-6 engine.
For truly, it was a classic motorcar that not only propelled me down the crumbling road infrastructure, but also drove me—I must say—into the heart of at least one very pretty lady. Okay, just one pretty lady, probably.
Still, though my current car (a '99 Mercury Cougar) has its charms, nothing comes across like the Rambler did, especially when the steering and brakes would go out and I careened across boulevards and ditches and medians and newspaper boxes and shrubs and retirement communities and unfortunate squirrels and UPS guys laboring with their dollies and smitten lovers and frustrated artists (although I think I did the latter a favor, despite all the litigation).
For truly, it was a classic motorcar that not only propelled me down the crumbling road infrastructure, but also drove me—I must say—into the heart of at least one very pretty lady. Okay, just one pretty lady, probably.
Still, though my current car (a '99 Mercury Cougar) has its charms, nothing comes across like the Rambler did, especially when the steering and brakes would go out and I careened across boulevards and ditches and medians and newspaper boxes and shrubs and retirement communities and unfortunate squirrels and UPS guys laboring with their dollies and smitten lovers and frustrated artists (although I think I did the latter a favor, despite all the litigation).
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