The Torino's POV
The Torino's POV
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The Torino’s POV By Amye
Cruisin’ on a Sunday afternoon…. What? You were expecting “Highway to Hell?” You don’t get how a powerful, dynamic car like me can like such a dopey little song? Let me explain. See my driver, he’s like me. Masterful, charismatic, fun-loving, energetic; I can go on and on. So I really enjoy when he takes it easy on me. It’s like downtime for me. Sitting idle with my engine off means I get some well-deserved sleep, but occasionally a gal likes to just take it easy and cruise quietly down the streets basking in the sun of southern California. I’m a female? You gasp. Didn’t know that cars had sexual personas did you? A lesson: We cars are female and trucks are male. Zebra 3, Zebra 3 come in. Uh, oh. So much for my lazy Sunday afternoon. <screech> Man, that hurts! Why, oh why whenever he hears that ridiculous name does my driver have to turn my wheels 180? Why doesn’t he ever get called to go somewhere towards where my nose is facing? Every year my tires have to be replaced due to the wear and tear from these turns. <slam> Ouch! Does it never end? First Mr. Driver practically yanks my transmission off when he pulls my steering wheel, then he peels the rubber off my wheels, and to top it off Mr. Passenger always slams this large piece of metal on my roof. Like that doesn’t hurt! And the darn thing won’t come off until they take it off. It’s like having, at tick I would guess is the best analogy, driving its prongs into a human’s scalp. And the noise! My driver installed this non-issued radio onto my dash. So whenever he gets called by this ‘Zebra 3’ he flicks a switch and this horrible whining comes from my engine. Let me tell you – Ford DID NOT authorize that piece of equipment. I remember coming off the line as an infant and going to a nice lot where Curly picked me up. He was the one who made those adjustments. I’ve asked other cars if they had this tinkering done with their engine and dash, and only a few times did I get an affirmative. Of course, the Black and White Victorian’s all have one. But they’re uppity about it because they’re specially made. Another was Mr. Passenger’s poor LTD. The poor thing has been begging to be put out of its misery, but tells me that his driver won’t hear of it. That’s one thing I can be thankful for: At least my driver takes very good care of me. Won’t hear of a week going by without washing and waxing me. Won’t let Mr. Long Legs turn me into a garbage vehicle, though he certainly tries. Why my driver practically worships me. Of course, I can see why. There’s not many like me, I preen. I’m a special car and my driver knows it. Why even when I get hurt my driver makes sure I get only the best care. “Merle’s Auto Customizing” is the best car clinic in the city. I’ve had numerous holes placed into my sides, and I can’t tell you how many times my glass got shot out. Especially the door windows. And let me tell you, all that glass flying around stings. I’ve also had my brakes cut. It also put Mr. Driver and Mr. Passenger in danger. I admit, it was fun at first flying down that hill. I knew my driver could handle it, but once we finally stopped and I came down from the rush, I let loose the remainder of my brake fluid. I think a good comparison would be an expression I’ve heard the two humans say: “I almost peed my pants.” Except in this case, I did. And I know my driver can handle my engine and heavy torso. He drives just like a professional. Well, except for that once. He plowed me into some shack; broke my nose, and my front glass. And made Mr. Passenger bleed all over my dashboard. But that was the exception, usually he can handle me with no problems. A few times Mr. Long Legs had to drive me. And my driver was usually not with him, though I’m not sure why. Of course, he had to adjust the seats, which feels nice. My seats get cramped from sitting in the same position all the time. I like it when he drives. Those long fingers caressing my steering wheel makes my tailpipe tingle. Speaking of seats, my are pretty lucky. I get the hottest set of buns sitting on them. They fit so nicely in the black leather imprint that’s developed from so much use. ***** <screech> Here we go again! The stops, there’s another thing that wears down my poor tires. If you don’t believe me, look back at the skid marks I leave. Don’t think that doesn’t cause any agony? It’s like they’re on fire. Of course my driver could be making better use of me with the women, but he doesn’t. I don’t think he wants anything to mess up my black leather interior. He sure likes to rip me all over the streets though, showing off my powerful, sexy engine, and attractive white stripe.
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