An Ode to POS Cars
We are currently in the process of attempting to get our 1997 Acura inspected. This is proving most difficult, however, as the car has thus far proven incapable of passing the Texas State Inspection requirement that all its parts actually work. Something about the air intake valve, blah blah blah.
Since the cost of having a mechanic fix the problem is going to run us about $500 MINIMUM to fix, we've been taking advantage of my dad's seemingly inexhaustible knowledge of cars and his willingness to accept beer as payment for his labor.
The Acura is not the first POS old car I've driven.
As I've mentioned before, my dad has frugality down to an art form. As a result, we drove every single car we owned until it was beyond repair, which, as a result of my dad's ability to fix everything himself, turned out to be never.
So when I was in high school, my primary mode of transportation was a 1988 Chevy Beretta. It looked pretty similar to this:
I guess I should have been more embarrassed by it, especially since I attended an uppity private school where "Sweet 16" cars were pretty much the norm, but my friends from public school slapped a "You have to be really secure to be seen in a car like this" bumper sticker on it, and it became a mascot for all the unspoiled kids across America.
But in hindsight, I'm glad they made me drive that crappy car. Not only because I would later grow up to be completely unimpressed by much of the material stuff that others toil endlessly to obtain, but because some of the best things about my teen years somehow involved that busted up car.
That car was epic. Probably the coolest thing about it was that my parents didn't give a crap what happened to it. The shock absorbers were completely shot, so every little bump you hit sent the car into orbit. So my friends and I would find the most demolished back roads (this wasn't hard in Katy, TX) and race the car over the bumps like we were the damn Dukes of Hazzard.
Occasionally, my friends and I would paint the car to celebrate some completely irrelevant event. When I first asked my dad permission to do so, his response was, "Will the paint wash out? Actually, you know what, I really don't care. Go nuts."
I also became educated in basic automobile survival guides. My mom and dad figured they would be remiss in their duties as parents if they insisted I clunk around in a car that was always one malfunction away from spontaneous combustion, so my dad made sure I knew exactly what to do if the brakes suddenly gave out. (You pull the e-brake, in case you're curious). While most of my friends didn't know how to turn on their hazard lights, I had a thorough working knowledge of which sounds from the engine meant an explosion was nigh.
Alas, the Beretta finally got totaled when my brother was t-boned (my parents had passed the legendary POS to him after I went to college).
Fast forward a decade later, and somehow, even David has come to appreciate the awesomeness of an old-as-hell car that most people would have impounded in 2005. Despite the fact that the locks don't work, and occasionally the alarm goes off for absolutely no reason, it still handles like a dream. Although I've never attempted it, you could probably execute a 90 degree turn at 70 mph, assuming you didn't black out from the g-force. (I'm going to be honest: I have no idea if I just used the term "g-force" properly.)
By some bizarre combination of Japanese engineering, my father's meticulous "improvements", and what I can only assume is some anthropomorphic sense of loyalty, that car refuses to quit. Just like its predecessor.
And even though there's a perfect hole in the passenger seat from the time I accidentally punctured it with a stiletto heel (until my dad fixed it, there was a phase where the door wouldn't open from the inside so you had to climb out the passenger side), I plan to keep that car until the wheels fall off. Or until it doesn't pass inspection. Which could be, like, now-ish.
Since the cost of having a mechanic fix the problem is going to run us about $500 MINIMUM to fix, we've been taking advantage of my dad's seemingly inexhaustible knowledge of cars and his willingness to accept beer as payment for his labor.
The Acura is not the first POS old car I've driven.
As I've mentioned before, my dad has frugality down to an art form. As a result, we drove every single car we owned until it was beyond repair, which, as a result of my dad's ability to fix everything himself, turned out to be never.
So when I was in high school, my primary mode of transportation was a 1988 Chevy Beretta. It looked pretty similar to this:
 |
| (Only instead of the sweet rims, it had "oops, there was a wall there" dents.) |
But in hindsight, I'm glad they made me drive that crappy car. Not only because I would later grow up to be completely unimpressed by much of the material stuff that others toil endlessly to obtain, but because some of the best things about my teen years somehow involved that busted up car.
That car was epic. Probably the coolest thing about it was that my parents didn't give a crap what happened to it. The shock absorbers were completely shot, so every little bump you hit sent the car into orbit. So my friends and I would find the most demolished back roads (this wasn't hard in Katy, TX) and race the car over the bumps like we were the damn Dukes of Hazzard.
 |
| If you've never intentionally launched your car, then you haven't lived. Or you're not a redneck. Same thing. |
Occasionally, my friends and I would paint the car to celebrate some completely irrelevant event. When I first asked my dad permission to do so, his response was, "Will the paint wash out? Actually, you know what, I really don't care. Go nuts."
I also became educated in basic automobile survival guides. My mom and dad figured they would be remiss in their duties as parents if they insisted I clunk around in a car that was always one malfunction away from spontaneous combustion, so my dad made sure I knew exactly what to do if the brakes suddenly gave out. (You pull the e-brake, in case you're curious). While most of my friends didn't know how to turn on their hazard lights, I had a thorough working knowledge of which sounds from the engine meant an explosion was nigh.
Alas, the Beretta finally got totaled when my brother was t-boned (my parents had passed the legendary POS to him after I went to college).
Fast forward a decade later, and somehow, even David has come to appreciate the awesomeness of an old-as-hell car that most people would have impounded in 2005. Despite the fact that the locks don't work, and occasionally the alarm goes off for absolutely no reason, it still handles like a dream. Although I've never attempted it, you could probably execute a 90 degree turn at 70 mph, assuming you didn't black out from the g-force. (I'm going to be honest: I have no idea if I just used the term "g-force" properly.)
 |
| If you don't get this picture, then you don't read enough meme-based humor outlets. Or you have a life. Same thing. |
By some bizarre combination of Japanese engineering, my father's meticulous "improvements", and what I can only assume is some anthropomorphic sense of loyalty, that car refuses to quit. Just like its predecessor.
And even though there's a perfect hole in the passenger seat from the time I accidentally punctured it with a stiletto heel (until my dad fixed it, there was a phase where the door wouldn't open from the inside so you had to climb out the passenger side), I plan to keep that car until the wheels fall off. Or until it doesn't pass inspection. Which could be, like, now-ish.
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