to the Apocalypse
when you’re an asshole scoutmaster, because:
- if you’ve got to rear end somebody…
True Story: I rear-ended my scoutmaster at an intersection. This is a traffic accident and not anything else. Assholes. (I nearly killed Phid and cross traffic 5 years later at the same place. Something is karmically bad with Marquises (Marquii?) there.) The one cool thing this bastard ever did was to wait until after the campout was over to report the accident, which saved me a ticket. The other one cool thing is that he let me drive this bitch on a paper drive. FYI, you can’t drift these barges with 800 lbs. of old Playboys in the wayback, unless you have about 3x the engine power.
Nothing says “ooh baby, I am ready to play” like a 1973 Mercury Colony Park. To be historically accurate, it needs a dash compass (to find your way home when you have no idea where you woke up), and a blanket in the wayback to buffer the metal cargo area and the vinyl seats when your getting busy with the swarms of hood rats that are inexorably drawn to this bastion of testosterone fueled manliness.
To be truthfully accurate, the blanket was actually for staying alive if the car broke down in the winter – not completely unheard of, once the grand “gasahol” experiment of 1978 fucked up its whole fuel system.