My first new car was a 1969 muscle car. I loved that car, and for almost three years it was my pride and joy. Back then, most new cars came with a manufacturer’s warranty good for 40,000 miles or three years, whichever came first, and to my amazement, when mine hit 40,001 miles, it commenced to falling apart. To make matters worse, I wasn’t through paying for the cursed thing!

I’d been watching as the mileage crept toward the dreaded 40K mark, and coincidence or not, it overheated and hissed at me immediately after reaching the dreaded milestone. I panicked, and figured my best plan would be to trade the thing in. So the following Saturday, I drove into town and pulled up to the front door of one of the local dealerships.

car overheatingI went in, told the salesman I was interested in trading for a new car, told him what a fine trade in I had, and he smiled—one of those “sure, kid” smiles—and said, “Let’s take a look at her!” Then, he opened the front door, and… the car screamed. “EEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

I just stood there, staring at the obviously demon possessed car, as steam began to spew from the grill. The salesman was shouting something, but I couldn’t hear him, and knew it didn’t matter what he was saying anyway. The jig was up, and the car from hell wasn’t going to let me get rid of it.

Eventually, I figured out what was wrong, and actually changed the head gasket myself. But that wasn’t the last of the problems, and a few months later—at a loss, mind you—I was able to trade the car off. I almost—almost—felt guilty thinking someone else would now be tormented by the cursed car.

I’m telling you, folks, the car was evil!

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