From A Clunker.

It's been a long time since we talked. OK ... we never talked; I didn't have GPS. But is that my fault? I don't think so. I was manufactured in 1987 - remember what you were like in '87?

I do. You were so excited to get me. I was your "first." You couldn't wait to shine and buff me, show me off to all your friends, pile things in my glove compartment, and hang deodorizers inside me. You thought of me as an extension of you, and I was too short-sighted to know the limits of that concept.

I could say a lot of things about now. I could say that I never meant to damage your image with girls. I could say that I never meant to pollute the environment. I could say that I have nothing against Al Gore, and am very pleased to see he's lost weight. I could say a lot of things...but it wouldn't be enough. For society has designated me a "clunker" - consigned to the scrapheap of history.

I've seen the car you'd like to replace me with. I know those cars - they've pulled alongside me dozens of times. Sure, they go fast, but when you want legroom, who will you think about? Me. Did I guzzle too much gas? You bet. But that's what we did in those days. We didn't know any better - and neither did you.

You must know that it wasn't easy. Taking you from place to place. Letting you spill things all over my interior. Escorting your fat cousin Jeffrey, whose thighs in summer dripped like the Exxon-Valdez. Hearing that same Jim Croce tape over and over. "If I could save time in a bottle" - UGH.

I just hope you understand that, throughout it all, I always tried to be the best car that I could be.

And know that somewhere, in a distant universe where everything is just, you're the one being smashed to Kingdom Come, while I own the road.