Every Sunday, I would do the same thing: hit the papers with a thin black marker in hand and smudge-thumb through thousands of ½ inch used car classifieds, searching for the perfect used car. I knew what I wanted. Finding it was the hard part - and when I did locate that one used, yellow '76 Camaro with the black interior and less than 50,000 miles, I wasn't going to quibble about things like a pre-purchase examination.
I bought it, and beamed. After all -- who needs an inspection when we all know that people are inherently decent; most won't dupe or rip off another human, right?
I still thought that when the passenger window refused to stay up. Oh, it would roll up with no trouble and stay there, as long as you kept your hand on the window. But who needs a window -- I have a jacket, after all, and it really doesn't get very cold in southern California. Still, something inside told me that I should have checked that before I bought the car.
I shrugged it off. But when the Camaro exploded in a ball of white smoke and flames, I knew it to be true.
I got ripped.
