At a recent junkyard excursion I happened upon this somewhat rough Dodge. Now you might ask — as I did — what the hell is with the wing? Did you clear a flight path for that? Are you trying to hold the trunk down? The answer is simple — kids do stupid crap with their cars.
If there’s a way to glue, stick ‘em, bolt, paint, or yes, Velcro, something onto a vehicle you can be sure a kid between the ages of 16 to 23 has done so with what turns out to be frightening results.
Not that I’m any kind of car genius that hasn’t dealt out my share of Frankenstein to an automobile either. Check out this honey of a ride. Yes sir, my very first car — the Turbo Gerbil, an ’83 Corolla SR5, named thusly because it was not turbo and sounded funny when put before gerbil.
Dig that aftermarket chrome stripe and holofoil Toyota shade. I’m no expert here but I’m guessing that took at least two or three seconds off my quarter mile time — sun’s rays being reflected and all.
Don’t try and make sense out of it; it only makes sense when a group of seventeen-year-olds start naming each other’s cars. Together with the Lunch Wagon, an ’86 Nissan king-cab; Merlin the Brown Wizard, a ’79 Celica that had no weather stripping; and the Funky Chicken, a white ’86 Ford Thunderbird that stalled out at every other light we stopped at, we made up a collection of road warriors that has not since been equaled since Urkel on Family Matters learned to drive.
So when you see something like this run-down Dodge in the junkyard years later, you just have to shake your head and smile. Somebody had an awful lot of fun with this thing. I know I did with mine.