Safety I do not desire. Mileage is my master. Where then, I ask, where have all the horrible hoopties gone?
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You used to see them. Putt putt cough rolling cough down the street. Datsuns. Colts. Kias. Geos. Daewoos. Yugos. ZAPs. Daihatsus. Suzukis.
They were pipsqueaks on the road, boxes of economy. So small! So sweet!
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You used to be able to stuff so much stuff in them. Hm, huh, if I just, I could take this seat out and, yeah! A fridge! This little Honda fit my fridge!
Steering wheels so big in front of this small seat, windows tall to the sides. These were the good bad cars. They were bad, but they were also good. It was in their own way that they were good. Their badness was a part of their goodness. Better said, their goodness was dependent on their badness. The little creaking goodness that exists within badness.
You do not want them. I want them. You do not want the little light bad. I want the little light bad. I want the put-more-oil-in-it-when-it-smokes, feel-the-car-shake-on-the-railroad-tracks econocar of yesteryear. I want it. I need it.
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