From: Cap't Bob
The "Checque thine engine soone!" torch keeps igniting.
When you park, you have to put a "Vehicle Not Abandoned" sign in the window.
You got your fourth speeding ticket this week as a result of inaccurate conversions from the speedometer's furlongs-per-fortnight readings.
Your mechanic charges you a "pain and suffering" fee.
Your factory-installed GPS keeps warning you that you're about to fall off the edge of the Earth.
Tires by Firestone; brakes by Flintstone.
The only thing in the dash that still functions is the 8-track tape player, and your Uriah Heep tape is almost worn out.
The only thing holding the back bumper together is your "All the Way With LBJ" sticker.
The squeegee guys are giving YOU money.
Your inquiries to the Studebaker factory are returned unopened.
Your genuine stegosaurus-hide upholstery is beginning to crack.
Not only isn't the in-dash Victrola XM-ready, it also skips a hell of a lot.
You can't make it smell fresh and lovely anymore, no matter how much Summer's Eve you use.
Your exhaust trail has caused so much environmental damage, Al Gore turned in his Nobel Peace Prize and headed straight for a gun shop.
Bedrock Motors placard fell off and broke your wife Wilma's toe.
The manufacturer issued a recall because of a defect they found in the brains of the people who buy them.
The neighborhood dogs don't consider it worth chasing.
MacGyver couldn't make this piece of crap run if he had an entire auto shop and six weeks at his disposal.