It’s a dark January night in Winter Park, Colorado, and you’ve wrapped up a solid day on the mountain destroying Mary Jane. With your skinny Rossignol skis straddled across your right shoulder, you hobble your way from the lodge after an hour of Bud Light-filled après-ski, towards the parking lot across the street. There’s snow falling on a towering horizon of lodgepole pines, the wind hollowing and temperatures continuing to drop.
But what’s hot is the Oldsmobile Firenza LC Coupe. I mean, look at that sexy rear C-pillar…elegance…sophistication. Then all of the sudden, you hear what you imagine to be a snowplow scraping a sheet of ice, but then you see five shadows holding torches descending on you.
Before continuing off on this saga, let’s review a few of the comments from , where Craig and Jill had been caught walking out of their local YMCA after a sweaty “Tony Gazelle Thigh Thruster” workout. Did Craig’s leased 1998 Camaro Z/28 convertible start? Did Jill split from Craig after seeing he opted for a tan-colored top rather than black? Here some of the best remarks:
“Bob walked out of the gym with his date Denise, a little concerned that his ride would would be seen as tired, flaccid, and trying too hard to recapture lost youth. But at least he knew the Camaro would be reliable.”-onrails
“Mary was sick of Rick’s stereotypically awful parking and delivered the breakup blow on that long walk out of the gym. ‘It’s not me. It’s you’.”-
“I don’t know how to say this without being kind of gross Jill, but you were working out pretty hard in there, and while I don’t mind if my car looks like a catfish, well…”-
Back to Colorado. You’re now aware the sounds of slicing and clinking isn’t that of a rust orange C-DOT snowplow with blue flashing lights on top. The flames are approaching you closer, and you make out five skiers (because snowboarders were more attracted to you know, the Jeep Cherokee). You’re terrified because three of them are wearing white masks yet, impressed with their form. Bend those knees, Jerry. The quintet continues to ski down towards your car, and despite desperate yells of “Pizza! Pizza!” they aren’t slowing their speed. What do you do? Who are these people? Why on earth is that ’87 Oldsmobile that clean after driving up Berthoud Pass in a blizzard the nigh before your morning powder day?
Let the comment section below be your canvas. And go.