Since my Treasuremobile died, I thought I'd take a moment and tell you all a little story about my first Treasuremobile, "The Blue Ba$tard."
The Blue Ba$tard was the greatest car ever--a 1982 Ford Escort with well over 200,000 miles.
The Blue Ba$tard was 100 degrees inside in the shade on a summer day due to its dark blue vinyl seats. You had to be careful just how you sat in it if you had shorts on! There was an AM radio in the dash which had one speaker.* When you turned up the volume, the speaker vibrated and drowned out the music. This was o.k. if you were on the interstate though, because the vibration noise inside the car was so loud it drowned out the music anyway.
The rustbucket had a floor pan on the driver's side that had been ripped out during some offroading up a mountainside. This fact sucked, because when it was dry out and you were driving down the interstate the carpet blew up and tickled the back of your legs. I got used to it after a while, but it eventually rubbed all the hair off my calves. When it rained the tickling stopped, but the driver's floorboard was a swamp. I was always a little scared to put my feet down in the middle of the floorboard for fear I'd have to Fred Flintstone the thing around.
A friend of mine and I made our own crop circles with the Ba$tard in the neighboring corn fields one night. (I guess the tire tracks ruled out aliens.) It took us a long time to get all the corn debris out of the grill.
I used to take the Blue Ba$tard out on "shopping cart demolition derbies." This came to an abrupt halt when instead of flying out to one side, a shopping cart I hit at 25 mph flew up and over the car, cracking the windshield. I thought the thing was gonna land in my lap. Jesus. Game Over.
One time when I was riding a friend around, the driver's seat (which had rusted out of the frame) came loose as I rounded a curve and I ended up--seat and all--in my friend's lap. He quickly and reflexively pushed me upright again and I managed to recover the wheel. At the auto shop afterward, the burly, bearded man told me I needed to make sure I had enough leg room when he welded in the new seat (red cloth, thank God!), because it "weren't goin' nowhere."
I used to take the Ba$tard to preppy little teenage cheerleaders' carwashes. Since the whole thing had been painted with a spray can, the paint always came off on their wash rags. I would jump out of the car, pretending to be angry, and shout "What the HELL are you using on my car, TURPENTINE?" This was at least good for a few tears and sobs.
The death of the Blue Ba$tard was a slow one. Strangely enough, its demise was not the result of any undue punishment I had placed on the vehicle. While going over a mountain in Virginia (yes, on a diggin' trip!), the "check engine" light came on. (On a Ford Escort, this is really the "engine f%*cked" light.) With no engine temperature guage (only speed, odometer, gas, and "check engine"), I could not have seen it coming. I pulled over to find out that the water pump had gone out, and the thing was leaking water all over the road. The engine was never the same again. Afterwards I only could pull hills on the interstate at 40mph while tractor trailors came up behind me ominously fast. I remember them growing in size in the rear view mirror until I thought they would ram the back of the car, then jack-knife into the left lane and blow their horns. A this point I was convinced the the car would die and take me with it. We tried to meet our doom together--I drove it on a 5 hour trip with no brakes once...but that's another story. Anyhow, the Blue Ba$tard finally died for good during a run for booze. (for that car, a sweet, poetic death) The only thing that sucked was that I had five anxious friends packed into it at the time.
After the car was towed, the repair man said "That'll be fifty bucks for the tow." I said "Hell, take the car!" and started to walk out. Then the guy had the nerve to ask me for the title. I told him that for fifty bucks he didn't get a title. Then I came back late that night and jacked all four tires and left the poor Ba$tard resting on the rims. Requiescant in pace, Ba$tard. I will always hold you dear to my heart.
-Buckleboy
The Blue Ba$tard was the greatest car ever--a 1982 Ford Escort with well over 200,000 miles.
The Blue Ba$tard was 100 degrees inside in the shade on a summer day due to its dark blue vinyl seats. You had to be careful just how you sat in it if you had shorts on! There was an AM radio in the dash which had one speaker.* When you turned up the volume, the speaker vibrated and drowned out the music. This was o.k. if you were on the interstate though, because the vibration noise inside the car was so loud it drowned out the music anyway.
The rustbucket had a floor pan on the driver's side that had been ripped out during some offroading up a mountainside. This fact sucked, because when it was dry out and you were driving down the interstate the carpet blew up and tickled the back of your legs. I got used to it after a while, but it eventually rubbed all the hair off my calves. When it rained the tickling stopped, but the driver's floorboard was a swamp. I was always a little scared to put my feet down in the middle of the floorboard for fear I'd have to Fred Flintstone the thing around.
A friend of mine and I made our own crop circles with the Ba$tard in the neighboring corn fields one night. (I guess the tire tracks ruled out aliens.) It took us a long time to get all the corn debris out of the grill.
I used to take the Blue Ba$tard out on "shopping cart demolition derbies." This came to an abrupt halt when instead of flying out to one side, a shopping cart I hit at 25 mph flew up and over the car, cracking the windshield. I thought the thing was gonna land in my lap. Jesus. Game Over.
One time when I was riding a friend around, the driver's seat (which had rusted out of the frame) came loose as I rounded a curve and I ended up--seat and all--in my friend's lap. He quickly and reflexively pushed me upright again and I managed to recover the wheel. At the auto shop afterward, the burly, bearded man told me I needed to make sure I had enough leg room when he welded in the new seat (red cloth, thank God!), because it "weren't goin' nowhere."
I used to take the Ba$tard to preppy little teenage cheerleaders' carwashes. Since the whole thing had been painted with a spray can, the paint always came off on their wash rags. I would jump out of the car, pretending to be angry, and shout "What the HELL are you using on my car, TURPENTINE?" This was at least good for a few tears and sobs.
The death of the Blue Ba$tard was a slow one. Strangely enough, its demise was not the result of any undue punishment I had placed on the vehicle. While going over a mountain in Virginia (yes, on a diggin' trip!), the "check engine" light came on. (On a Ford Escort, this is really the "engine f%*cked" light.) With no engine temperature guage (only speed, odometer, gas, and "check engine"), I could not have seen it coming. I pulled over to find out that the water pump had gone out, and the thing was leaking water all over the road. The engine was never the same again. Afterwards I only could pull hills on the interstate at 40mph while tractor trailors came up behind me ominously fast. I remember them growing in size in the rear view mirror until I thought they would ram the back of the car, then jack-knife into the left lane and blow their horns. A this point I was convinced the the car would die and take me with it. We tried to meet our doom together--I drove it on a 5 hour trip with no brakes once...but that's another story. Anyhow, the Blue Ba$tard finally died for good during a run for booze. (for that car, a sweet, poetic death) The only thing that sucked was that I had five anxious friends packed into it at the time.
After the car was towed, the repair man said "That'll be fifty bucks for the tow." I said "Hell, take the car!" and started to walk out. Then the guy had the nerve to ask me for the title. I told him that for fifty bucks he didn't get a title. Then I came back late that night and jacked all four tires and left the poor Ba$tard resting on the rims. Requiescant in pace, Ba$tard. I will always hold you dear to my heart.
-Buckleboy
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I must have passed this thread a million times on purpose. I finally gave in and read it. It was dang funny too!!! That poor, poor... umm... car! 
