|Subject: dear San Francisco: learn to drive
When I used to park my '75 Gran Torino in the Boogie-Down Bronx, I knew ahead of time that if I parked in wrong place it would be hit. It was virtually guaranteed. A ding here, and a ding there.
Unlike your RB, however, my Gran Torino exacted a heavy price for these transgressions.
Then, it stopped running and the tires were stolen. Finally somebody moved into it which turned it from a ghastly sedan and into a ranch style house on a slab. (these last 3 points were all true)
It was lavishly decorated with faux gold Louis XIV Versailles furniture and a giant crystal chandelier was hung from the rear view mirror so I assume that the residents were Puerto Ricans. We started to call it "Greaseland". Chato lived there with his pit bull and his harem of crazy bitches. He wore a shiny sweat suit and a Kangol brim.
Then, he moved to Rhode Island and rubbed elbows with Ed Duranty at the DMV.
Ed was there with his pit bull and his harem of crazy bitches. He wore a shiny sweat suit and a Kangol brim. Ed flashed his array of gode teef at Chato- a splendid grill, I must say.
"Don't make me free style" - Ed intoned gravely.
Chato knew that he had instantly become obsolete.
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