A few days ago I walked out to my car and saw a sheet of paper underneath the driver's side winda-sheild wiper. Aw shit, says I to myself. Another ticket. Upon closer inspection, it was not a ticket. It was yet another note from a would-be buyer that thought I actually would flirt with even the faintest notion of selling my car:
Nah. Nah. Nah.That's not how this works, Bob. I've known this car for my entire life and nothing, not even ten hundred billion dollars will separate me from the Pinto. Not even eleventy hundred billion dollars. Not a cure for the common cold. The blueprints build to a better mousetrap. Nothing you can do or say will ever make me get up one day and say "Hey, you know what? I'm selling the Pinto!"
One more time: The Pinto is Not for Sale. The Pinto is not just a car, it's my own little time capsule. I will be driving this thing until I can't drive it no mo, at which point I will park it in an undisclosed secluded location for it to die peacefully. I will visit it, bring it flowers, and sit behind the wheel making vrooom vrooooom! sounds.Well. On second thought, maybe I can let it go for a couple hundred thousand. But only if said buyer happened to be a very attractive, witty and lovely single lady who could provide me with a cashier's check for $300,000 and also want to hire me as her own personal muse. I will write up a contract and in the contract, you may want to make note of some of the small print. It will read as follows:
- The Buyer can only drive the car when the Seller is in it.
- The "Buyer driving the car" is defined as the Buyer sitting in the passenger seat and asking the Seller to drive it (that is unless the Buyer knows how to drive a 4 speed stick.)
If you meet all of the above criteria, Bob, shoot me an email or wait by the car for me to come out someday so we can talk.
