scratch the crack and smell the fumes, dude by Michele Christopher
So I get an email from a long lost friend today: "When are you going to talk about Mustangs??" I once had a Mustang. Unforunately, it was of the 77 variety, produced during a time when perhaps Ford thought Mustang was synomous with "looks like Dad's car!" I did love that thing, and driving a stick was one of the greatest autombile pleasure of my life, but it wasn't, you know, a Mustang. Let's talk real Mustangs. There ya go. This here is a 1970 Ford Mustang of the Mach I variety. Unlike the previous cars I've talked about - where I envisioned myself driving them - this one is pure testosterone. It's a guy's car. If cars were dicks, the Mach I one would belong to John Holmes. It's the kind of car I might not drive, but would keep in my driveway and spend every Saturday afternoon lovingly soaping it up and hosing it down while entertaining the neighborhood with Mach I worthy tunes. Clawfinger - Biggest and the Best In the denim buggies across the dunes,
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I've taken rides from strangers [hot ones I was pretty sure I could take in a fight, but still] just to ride in their cherry red '67 coupes. Sigh.
It was pretty much like what Michele said about the '69 Charger: I should have tossed the one slobbering wreck and made out with his car instead.
Posted by: Jessica | May 29, 2006 5:33 PM