The most reliable car I've ever owned, my 1995 Pontiac Grand Am, is no longer in a functioning state. I've had the car for over four years, and put over 80,000 miles on it. Its taken me to six different states; through sand dunes, muddy lake edges, and rock-strewn mining pits. I've drank, smoked, made-out and even made love in it. I'm sure I've
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It was a good car; honest, dilligent, a little mouthy at times but who hasn't been? It stayed with you, even when you abused its shocks, stuffed dirt and sand into its filters, and even when you poured Mountain Dew on its smoldering block to stop the flames. In its later years, it developed a mild case of Carkinson's disease, shaking uncontrollably, and we never knew for sure whether it would be able to move on its own. Whenever I knew you were driving that little greenish-blue bullet out to visit or home again, I anxiously watched the phone for the inevitable call: "Hey, my car died in Touchet, could you give me a lift?"
Also, could we get a quick (ounces of alcohol)/mile calculation? That ought to be a breathtaking number, and written on a bar napkin.
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