Bored with running on a sultry day in the mid-1990s, my friend Matt, naked as the day he was born, forcibly commandeered a 1967 Dodge Dart with bright yellow rocker panels from a blind yam salesman and headed south on the Everett Turnpike. He soon collected a hitchhiker who looked like a Victoria's Secret model missing her top incisors. A decal of Yosemite Sam giving the finger guarded the rear windshield.
The oil light kept coming on even though he'd fed the crankcase four quarts right after jacking the fucker, so my friend Matt smashed in the indicator with a snot-encrusted thumb. Then, while doing seventy-five, he threw the door open, leaned out and peered under the beast, abrading his scalp on the pavement. A veritable flood of oil spurted from the sagging engine block. This bullshit, he thought, should never happen with a Slant 6 engine.
Growing angrier by the second, he produced a rusty Ping putter from the back seat and jammed it under the car, aiming for the suspected crack in the engine block. The putter became caught in the transaxle and just about threw him onto the Everett Turnpike. He clung fast to the steering wheel but pulled it sharply to the left in the process, rolling the Dart onto himself. They skidded together down the Everett Turnpike amid a shower of sparks and an unholy screeching noise while the hitchhiker cracked wise in a nasal falsetto.
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