Another Financial Flat-Spin as Funding Decimated Again in FCD Fuckstorm

CWMC Cold Storage Bunker #3, Ardrossan, Ab: If there was only one rule in the entire vast and hugely varied spectrum of the automotive universe, it would read:

  Never Buy a Rough SM.

" 'Never buy a rough SM' was actually the 9th commandment..." said FCD heavyweight and fellow Citroenthusiast Agent 9088 today in a telephone interview from his lavish winter retreat in Cannes where he was last seen partying with Keith and Jack aboard Johnny Depp's yacht, drinking 1962 Richebourg out of paper bags and shooting safety flares at passing tourists, "...until it was changed at the last minute to 'Thou shalt not covet', which is, of course, pretty much impossible, and therefore much better for business."
  "Speaking of coveting, that's a sweet SM you have there... "

Breaking the needle off the "Run-Away"-meter.

  Agents from all the other Divisions have been crippling the ancient switch- board with angry telephonic tirades, mostly bemoaning the inevitable slashing of their own expenses as the event horizon of the budgetary black-hole that accompanies SM ownership annihilates everything in its path.
  Even Satan, in town to attend the climate-change summit just for chuckles, has been leaving multiple messages on the Presidential answering machine...

"Beep"

 "Whoa, that's a seriously fuckin' bad idea, man; I mean, you should really think about what you're doing there, hey? That is a pretty irrational thing, you know? Like, I've talked some people into some fucked-up shit before, but an SM? A rough SM, in a field? Are you kidding? I can't even watch."

A 100-metre test drive was deemed sufficient.

  The SM, resplen- dent(ed) in a rusty-matte-grey and black-poplar-residue -crud finish that pundits are suggesting may have been silver back when the SM owners club had names like Chong, Brezhnev and Hailwood on the register, actually ventured out of its northern-boreal-forest home after some minor ministration from FCD Chairman Agent 747, dragging it's flat rear tires like a wounded deer, revving hard and digging some nice trenches in the soft tundra in a manner only somewhat inconsistent with the dignity implied in the car's pedigree.
  Witnesses from the French Auto Recovery Team were unsure whether to cheer the repeated attempts to crest the final hill or look away in horror; F.A.R.T. Agents in various states of redneckness smoked monstrous joints and drank heavily-fortified double-doubles and shoved the once-graceful GT towards freedom, pausing only occasionally to ask what all of the green oil was that trailed the cavalcade of Franco-Italian corruption as it inched forward to the trailer procured for the Operation.

"Beep"

Prime parking in Cold Storage Bunker #4.

"Hey, it's Satan again, buddy. I just wanted you to really think about what you're doing here. People care about you, you know? We have some good times, right? I mean, do you really think you're going to be the guy that can daily a cheap SM? It's impossible. I mean, I'm pretty crafty and all, but if you think I'm going to help you change the growly input-shaft thrust-bearing on this thing, you're really off the rails. Not for a thousand souls, buddy. And don't think God will come to your rescue, either. I don't think He even has a 9mm offset-stubby ratcheting-flare-wrench... You're on your own here, man."

  Luckily, Agent 747 will happily go there for a reasonable hourly-rate. While Beelzebub retreated, blubbering at the prospect of rebuilding the clutch-slave cylinder, Agent 747 calmly relayed the secret procedure in stark, mostly unambiguous language...

 "Thou shalt undo that bunch of wires over there, and those bunches there, too.
   Thou must then loosen all these shitty little 7mm bolts over here and here..."
  ok... "Thou shalt then undo all of these clampy-things on this side of this bracket here. Whenst thou hast removed the Fender, thou may layeth thine eyes upon the ancient and most holy location of the slave cylinder. Here, thou shalt perhaps make an offering in the form of a quiche or perhaps just a nice glass of red..."

And so on for several weeks.

 The President, chaining Export Plains from a tattered box of Gualoises and making unsilenced Weber sounds, has not moved from behind the wheel in several days as the French Car Sickness reaches it's terminal phase. All attempts to divert his attention from the 70's futurist dreamscape he now inhabits have met only with muttered mantras of "gotta check the chain tension... don't forget to upgrade the exhaust valves... that big dent in the side will probably just kick out..." etc. All Agents are encouraged to stop in and offer their congratulations or, in the case of Agent 1080, condolences.

Agent 1080 could literally barely contain himself.

In yet another not-very-shocking turn of events, the FCD has managed to procure a long-sought-after Renault R5; delivered, no less, by Agent 9088 himself. Straight from the personal collection of last year's ACOTY winner, the R5 was driven through the mountains to its new prairie home at nothing-to-lose velocity. With both parties prepared to walk away if any malfunction more serious than "low washer fluid" should sideline "Operation Time to Tidy up the Yard", a thorough 1000 km stress-test kept everyone honest for a refreshing change. The President, only somewhat overwhelmed by multiple rounds of VBRs treated Agents and passers-by alike to an evening of impromptu test-drives, showcasing the R5's penchant for Costa-Concordia-esque roll angles while inventing Gallic-sounding superlatives to describe the driving experience. A full cosmetic refresh is in the cards; but then, isn't it always?

"Beep"

"Dude. Satan. Am I reading this right? A LeCar? Dude, you need to sell it to me right away; so awesome... Call me."


 
 

Intruige and Outrage as "Cruiser of the Year" Scandal Rocks Upper Management; Hasty Cabinet Shuffle Imminent, as Usual

   Watercoolers are empty and photocopiers are buckling under the speculative-lean-induced strain as all productive work around the CWMC HQ office ground to a total halt this week, crippling the output of the company that Wall Street Week predicted would "...collapse so quickly under the weight of its own incompetence that it could trigger a sonic boom."

Nobody was fooled by Regent: Rubbish.

 The President, uncharacteristically calm or exceptionally well-tranquilized, was brief with the motoring press today following the announcement that he was going to be charged with attempting to rig his own Agency Cruiser of the Year contest in order to claim the lucrative "All you can drink Thursdays for one year" prize, redeemable in the CWMC HQ Lounge. 
  "This is fucking bullshit. I can enter as many cars as I want." said the unusually chatty Prez, clearly enjoying his well-deserved day in court, looking tidy in a blue velour sportcoat with almost all of the vomit cleaned off.

Swedish Car Division director Agent 311 arriving at HQ...

  Back at HQ, the usually comatose security team was kept awake by the comings and goings of a lot of CWMC heavy hitters rolling in at all hours, in full briefcase-and-sunglasses formals. G&Ts were slaughtered by the dozen and the polar ice caps sweated and sighed under the assault of ten thousand cigarettes jabbing and gesturing violently as Agents argued and assessed the situation.

Prez's "sure thing": DQ'd

  As the layers of subterfuge were peeled back, the precocity and percipience of the plan proved plain. By appointing himself head of the Domestic Car Division and buying the trophy, the President could drink from the company balance sheet, surely moving the company's bottom line to the bottom tax-bracket. All that was missing was a decent car. The President obviously forgot that all "Cruiser of the Year" entries had to be roadworthy and it wasn't a contest judged by the cumulative mass of all of the rusty iron you could jam into the DCD Parking lot.

Some of the entries were pretty convincing...

  
   "The state of the inventory situation has never been more critical." said Agent 303 today between holiday-hash-hits on the corporate whisky-bong, leaning and swaying affectionately against the fender of some kind of Mercury Diplodicoupe from the "What would Liberace do?" school-of-design. For Agent 303, the term "full-size car" is as redundant as "music piano".

...others less so.

   Swedish Car Division Director Agent 311 arrived looking disheveled and slightly more hungover than was expected; his usually pristine 1963 Volvo 122 estate clearly bearing the bug-splattered countenance of a Cruiser that has just recently been driven faster than 43 mph for several minutes.  Rumour has it that 311 has insisted that the President remove himself from the board of directors of the SCD citing a conflict of interest situation of Nixon-esque proportion. The President rapidly realized that if his SCD seat is to be relinquished, the grotesquely gushing funding-shrapnel-wound of the Saab 99 would no longer be tax-deductible and he would be totally bankrupt(er) within a matter of weeks. Watch for developments here soon, folks; this Nordic nonsense is as unsustainable as the sub-prime market for 28-inch chrome wheels. (Ed.: Applications for stewardship of CWMC's most notorious problem-child are being considered as this issue goes to press. You know who you are.)

Another DQ'd contender, despite near-roadworthiness.

  While the DCD's blatant funding abuse continued unchecked, the Prez was actually compres- sing the French Car Division's budget; even going so far as to cancel the 505 TD project entirely and dispose of the carcass to parts unknown (Agent 504 in Saskatchewan) in order to fund his delirious scheme. Finding itself under heavy funding fire, far from fortune, the FCD retrenched and reached out to the west for reinforcements; their letters landing on the desk of none other than Agent 9088, former SCD, GCD, and ICD board member, now making a real name for himself in the most diabolical of all the Divisions. 9088 realized that if the President's scheme worked, all of the Divisions' funding would continue to be cut until the whole Compound was overrun and the good times would dry up like so many old dash pads; parched and peeling and perishing under the infernal sun of... well... fuck, whatever. You get the idea.

303 stays true to form again this year...

An abortive attempt to prove that the President's entries were legitimate was quickly discredited when the plates on the 1959 Chevrolet Biscayne were shown to have expired in 1971, around the same time as the brakes, floor, and rear axle seals. Later, despite a somewhat inspiring 1 1/2 mile return journey to Tom's house in the 1950 Plymouth (featuring a rudimentary interpretation of "brakes"), this Cruiser too was disqualified for tags 41 years out of date. The President's explanation that he "forgot", while plausible, was viewed with a degree of skepticism appropriate to the claim. The 64-year old Plymouth upheld the marque's reputation for reliability though, negotiating a gentle left hand curve safely and reaching speeds of almost 33 miles per hour. The President was left pulling his largely figurative hair out; unable to produce a viable candidate for ACOTY, despite ballooning the DCD's inventory count by 8 Units in only a few months and decimating the FCD's typically lavish, laissez-faire livelihood.  

Looks good til you open the hood...

Some of them, like the floorless 1957 Plymouth Plaza and the lichen-encrusted 1958 Dodge Regent, were quite obviously just cynically scooped from junkyards to score cheap votes from Virgil Exner devotees like Agents 4261 and 303.  Other entries were kind of sad / funny, like the 72 Monaco with no engine, and the 1953 Packard Clipper that looked like it had been stored at the bottom of the ocean. The only realistic hope for the DCD was a promising 1958 Chevrolet Delray, but then it too was disqualified for being, in the words of one official, "mega-ruffski".

Scuzzy crusher-bait clogging the DCD parking lot.

 In the end, It was the sheer fathomage of the resolve of the FCD and their new golden boy, Agent 9088, that was to claim the trophy and take home the bottomless-bong-rips-and-bar-tab for 2015. Worthy entrants from all of the divisions were simply overwhelmed by the unstoppable-force of stylish awesomeness that is 9088's Citroen. The President himself paled when presented with a copy of the invoices; the paperwork was capricious and contradictory, and the "to do" list was Homerian. Seldom in a generation will the hallways of HQ be as alive with anticipation at they were while we waited for the news. 

Agent 9088 victorious with plated Traction Avant.

Then it was done: Plates.

  An official press release from the FCD contains this brief message from Agent 9088:

***BREAKING NEWS****BREAKING NEWS***

The Pacific Chapter of the French Car Division is very pleased to report that after 7 1/2 months, and completely uncounted hours & dollars, the mission has been completed successfully. As of 14:30 hours today the subject vehicle is registered and plated in BC.
There are those that said buying a car sight-unseen, over e-bay, from a sailor, might end badly.

There are those that suggested the fact that a Title from Mississippi, in the name of some guy called Hugo, should set off alarm bells.

There are those that suggested that there might be undisclosed repairs required.

There are even those who suggested that it might be a little difficult to get parts for a 59 year old French car, or that getting a quote for the work might be a good idea.

They were all right. But despite all that, tootling along in tractor-like splendor today made it all worthwhile.

Driving impressions and non-crappy photos to be forwarded as they become declassified, and after a suitable quantity of French wine has been consumed.

As always, moral support from HQ has been invaluable throughout the operation.

9088 out.
 

The President doesn't usually suffer from weird-French-car-envy, but...

  Congratulations to all Agents for making this years ACOTY another success, despite the increasingly obvious corruption and vote-rigging; please continue to labour under the illusion that your vote matters and that you can make a difference. Now get back to work.

9088's bar tab for 2015 is on the house at the CWMC HQ Lounge. Congrats 9088!

Multiple Agents Gunning for Field Unit Commander Kudos as Concours Season Brings out the Big Money

Reference materials always invaluable!

Lean Burn Technologies Compound, Cooking Lake, Ab. Agent 1080, aka "The Richard Petty of petty larceny" has been almost completely invisible all winter as he labours continuously on what promises to be a very strong contender in this year's "Agency Cruiser of the Year" sweepstakes. His adoption of an abandoned 1957 Dodge Sierra station wagon not only marks a brave departure from his usual Fury-and-Cordoba-centric collection, but is also a virtual shoe-in for a rare Field Unit Commander Kudos award as it nears completion in time for a test flight in the next several weeks.

Perfection throughout is the goal.

  Agent 1080 reports that he was "... grateful for all the help from Galen; I really wanted to go the extra mile with the underhood area on this project, and having copies of all of that super-anally-retentive chalk-marks-and-stickers bullshit really helped this car come together just like I had envisioned it. It really feels good to know that all of the tiniest details and factory markings have been reproduced in exacting, painstaking, irritating detail, no expense spared". Following the scrupulous restoration, Agent 1080 applied his favorite "Day 2" touches to lend the appropriate period feel to the wagon, including the mandatory set of Cragars, party lights, and his signature piece, the button tuft leather 6-way power seat by Chrysler, that he moves from car to car.

Thank God for Galen!

   Now that he has become accustomed to the generous capacities of the real 1976 New Yorker luxury bench, cars themselves have become for him mere carriages; constructed to transport the sacred seat around and keep it (mostly) dry.

Just another perfect restoration for 1080...

   The 413 sounds like a car should, and is going to be getting a workout as the car show season approaches, with 1080's Dodge booked as a feature car at several of the major concours stateside, showcasing the gold-standard detailing and attention to authenticity that made Galen and 1080 the household serial-number-nerd names they are today.

   1970S A-bodies, best known for their plane-crash panel gaps and propensity for mind-altering corrosion, have somehow worked their way up from the very scuzziest back alleys of Beatertown into the garage facilities of the secretive Gilewich Centre for Cultural Enrichment. The notorious Agents 0826 and 7678 apparently missed the memo that keeping a yard full of faded boogie vans, faded ex-cop cars, and disused Dodges of every dimension would eventually attract the wrong kind of attention, and, sure enough, the President weaved in at some point and began randomly hammering on some kind of dormant Dart while Agents kept the joints and G&Ts coming hot and steady. 

Another day at the office...

  Hours would pass to the pounding of the air compressor and the howling of various high-speed sanding devices, some capable of turning gallons of mud into dust in seconds, choking out the sun under clouds of toxic haze... Agent 0826 is excited to be nominated early this year for the semi-annual "Agent 8771's Way to Go, Fixing up your Old High-School Piece of Shit Car Award", signifying outstanding achievement in the field of wastefully indulgent nostalgia-tripping. Winning "The 8771" is considered one of the hallmarks of superiority in a business known for bad decision making.

Yes, those cars are being hauled INTO the yard.

  On the topic of bad decisions, fellow GCFCE Agent 7678 has completed "Operation Put a Dent in my Fender" and its subsequent, and predictably less exciting "Operation Waste more money on this Goddamn Chrysler" is coming together as this issue goes to press. What promises to be a very tidy tanker should be back at work soon, keeping the oil refineries busy and helping Alberta grow. With it's freshened and highly tidied B-block, its back to ruining tires and taking peoples money for Agent 7678; coming soon to a filling station near you.  

A few touchups on the ol' high-school rig.

Fender mayhem sorted.

  "Seldom am I compelled to give two F.U.C.K.s for any reason, but these cruisers really define what it means to be a CWMC Agent." said the President at a hastily cobbled-up press conference earlier this week, where, decrepit and clearly living comfortably outside the part of society that values a tidy appearance, he was seen in public for the first time in months, in all likelihood having been living secluded in his bunker, eating stale Frosted Flakes out of old margarine containers with a stir stick ever since the adoption of the Saab 99 as primary transport severely restricted his access to services farther away than the mailbox, including groceries and, apparently, grooming. He then went on to imply that any further public appearances would be necessarily brief, owing to the hazards implicit in having to trust the headlights of your 35 year old junkyard jalopy past sundown.

"Cumberland Rules" Clause Adds Spice as Winter Beater Challenge Heats up Again

 

  CWMC Headquarters, Ardrossan, Ab: Following in the tradition of the Hindenburg, Skylab, "Freedom 55" and General Motors, CWMC Agents and President alike have been hard at work as Operation Too Dumb to Quit swings into high gear with irresponsible amounts of effort and precious funding being invested in failed automotive paradigms with cryptic classifications like "Aries LE" and "99GL". Other Agents are getting in on the act as the snow season approaches, bringing with it the inevitable one-upmanship and rampant funding fraudulence of the Winter Beater Challenge.

Will Battle Cruiser #4 come out of retirement?

  Agent 533, not happy to be shepherd- -ing just one 2.2 Chrysler into antiquity, has taken the plunge again and is attempting to enlist a second version of this Klassic Kombo for winter duty; this time in the seductive form of an '85 Dodge Aries K. Beige, no less; with an automatic and a radio. 

533 with new WBC entry before tranny trauma...

  The radio, at least, appears to be in good order and seems to provide trouble-free access to AM frequencies, ensuring that 533 will remain informed of fluctuating hog prices and developing weather situations. Unfortunately, the car's only other option seems to have already resigned, leaving a smoky trail of fried clutches and dark-brown-Dexron II in its debris field. Rather than simply eat the $400.00 purchase price as a loss and sell the remains for science experiments, 533 has decided on to take the less-traveled road and invest in completely rebuilding the little slushbox on his floor at home, much to the delight of fellow Agents; always happy to experience their suffering vicariously and preferably with someone else's money.
   As this issue goes to press, 533 reports that "All systems are go... most of these extra little balls and springs and shit probably don't do anything anyway." 
  He then re-focused his attention on the pressing problem of propping up the power plant with cases of ammo and bits of kindling to facilitate the re-installation of the rebuilt unit. The President, called in to assist when competent collaborators could not be coerced, made himself useful by getting mega-ripped and eating leftover chocolate bars while leaning on the jack and going on at some length about how the Aries might be improved were it fitted with some dog-dish hubcaps and an oversized turbocharger.

  Agent 303, whose weakness for crippled ersatz-luxury barges has been well-documented in this newsletter, is not going to be left out this season, either. With a host of mid-70's FoMoCo heaps to choose from (sporting nicknames like "Garbage Truck", "Barnacle", and "Train Wreck"), 303 looks to be a serious contender again this year.

"Barnacle" shows 303 is at the top of his game.

   "I think I can put something together, but these guys are off the chain..." said Agent 303, citing again the "Cumberland Rules" clause when asked why his car had no trunk floor at all and only sporadic access to second gear. "If you got there, it's good to go" is basically the gist of the sentiment that sprang from the rather loose interpretation of the rules of 8-ball in certain parts of the country where 303 hails from originally.
 The President, whose brief encounters with reality tend to follow a depressingly familiar pattern, was last seen winding up a 4-day intercontinental booze cruise down at the local 7-11, abusing the proprietor over the scanty selection of Saab spares and equally miserable 4-carton stock of Export "Green Meanies", which were promptly commandeered in the interests of promoting a measure of diplomacy. 

I know some of you think we make this shit up.

  Sidelong smoke-break Saab-speculation seems to suggest this latest break with reality may have been precipitated by a desperate, month-long thrash to ready the ruined 99 for WBC '14 that went off the rails when the water pump shit itself immediately following the first successful test-drive, thus returning the car to spectator-status until further notice. After the bodywork, paint, wiring harness replacement, ball joints, interior rebuild, heater rebuild, brake rebuild and multiple-hour troubleshooting fuckstorm, the failure of the notorious Achilles-heel pump and the associated ferocity of the repair process combined with the absolute impossibility of locating replacement parts has taken its toll on Captain Crapulence's delicate connection with actuality. Again.

1080: Coulda been a contendah...

  Agent 1080 was determined to be a worthy rival this season, too, but seems to have gotten cold feet when his choice chariot 1978 Chrysler New Yorker returned gas mileage so utterly horrifying, so shockingly vile as to send him screaming for the anonymity of some kind of late-model salt-sled with which to make the commute and still be able to make the mortgage. His retreat has only made the remaining contestants more determined.

President's slowly seeping Saab: Fuck it, just bring a bucket.

  All Agents are encouraged to get in on the action as the snow is piling up and nothing says Happy Holidays like the smug satisfaction of a CWMC WBC Champion in a rusty deathtrap limping along the shoulder on the way to the annual drunk, ass-grabbing, tell-off-your-boss-and-puke-in-the-parking-lot office xmas party.

Agency S.C.U.M. Cruiser Updates and Controversy Again Over FCD Ruling

CWMC Headquarters, Ardrossan, Ab:  Late summer: long, sunny, unproductive afternoons and warm, boozy evenings, with plenty of time for idle contemplation and window shopping on the internet's bottomless used-car market. Well, almost bottomless; CWMC Agents can usually be found exploring the classic car counterpart to the Marianas Trench, often battling the President himself for the bring-a-battery bargains that show up under headlines like Good Derby Car and Going to Crusher on Friday.
  Sometimes you just know things intuitively, like when a movie is going to be terrible (stars any wrestler), or, by just a single stomach-churning lyric or churchy C-major chord change, that you've inadvertently selected the Christian radio station. In the same way, it is never too difficult to tell that the Agency Cruiser that has just pulled up at HQ belongs to the notorious Agent 303. It could be the ancient, cracking whitewalls, or the punched-out trunk lock and piece of rope holding the lid sort-of-closed, but there's definitely a certain vibe around 303's S.C.U.M. cruisers: a kind of grinning in the face of hopeless obsolescence mixed with an air of subtle menace that surrounds those with almost nothing to lose; the vehicular equivalent of a homeless rottweiler. Somewhere, a plate is jammed in a rear window, appropriated from a long-ago-sold sedan of similar description. The bumper might be gone, but the luxury lives on. 
  303's latest forays into the shady no-mans-land between the back alley and the scrap yard have netted a pair of Cruisers that epitomize his near-unchallenged stature as S.C.U.M. Champion First Class, showcasing what it takes to wear the blue ribbon of beater-town. A Lincoln Town Coupe, carbon-dated to the late-70's, serves to showcase his aesthetic preference for faded glory; its padded half-vinyl Landau top long-ago stripped away and brushed over in black Tremclad, bondo bulging as ancient rust repairs resurface under the sun-bleached $249.00 splash. 

It's either 303, or someone's great-great-aunt is lost...

  "I just love Lincolns," said 303 today in an interview from his luxurious north-side estate, where he was busy camou- flaging several of his other Cruisers with branches and grass clippings to hide them from the landlord.
  "...I mean, how awesome is this moonroof? If it had brakes, I would probably drive it even more."
  Beside the Lincoln sits another signature piece: some kind of Oldsmobile-ish coupe, also dating from the days of Bee-Gees and bellbottoms. Found sitting in the junkyard, it too was rescued and given a loving home by the crazy-cat-lady of big, domestic 2-door bombers. This sweetheart mega-canoe steps out with an efficient 400-ish cubes shredding the decrepit museum-ready radials on command while we recline in corduroy comfort, burning huge spliffs and sneering at the mortals in their payment-plan shame-sheds.

Yes, Agent 533 is stocking up on head gaskets.

  Agent 533's Cuiser status, meanwhile, has been massively upgraded from "Pretty Cool" to "Pretty Goddamn Cool" following the long-expected expiration of his namesake Bavarian Motor. It sits, mellowing gracefully in the shrubbery; the first leaves of fall skating lazily across the parched paint and lodging themselves comfortably under the wipers and behind the windshield weatherstrip, waiting for winter.
  "I needed an upgrade..." said 533 in an interview earlier this week, speaking loudly to be heard over the turbo whine and cool-jazz soundtrack grooving together as he prepares for liftoff. "In keeping with Company Policy of buying the cars you wanted when you were in elementary school, I've decided to go with the Omni GLH Turbo... "

Agents on the scene to inspect the new cruisers...

  In an only-just-barely-predicable move today, the French Car Division has offered its endorse- ment of 533's new cruiser, claiming that since its not-too-distantly related to the Talbot / Simca Horizon introduced in late 1977, (superseding the Simca 1100), it qualifies as a French car, and, therefore, budgets for that Division need to be adjusted accordingly.
  533's new Field Unit is actually so tidy that it will have to be supplemented shortly with another, more disposable rig in order that the salt be kept from the delicate flanks of one of the last surviving Omnis in the known universe. 
  All Agents are advised to get shopping, as Winter Beater Challenge will soon be upon us again, and there are just so many different ways to Subvert Conventional Urban Mediocrity.

Bad Decision Train Picking up Speed as Summer Clunker Season Kicks off in Earnest

Cold War Motors Outdoor Storage Facility #3, Ardrossan Ab: Connoisseurs clamored for crusty close-ups today as the Presidents car "collection" swelled again, this time celebrating the inexplicable arrival of another pair of high-rent classics courtesy of the Domestic Car Division and it's insatiable enthusiasm and uncanny capacity for post-war Americana at it's very most mediocre; saluting again the most awe-inspiring underachievements in ponderous 4-door sedan styling and poverty powertrains.

It doesn't run, but at least it's rusty

  Both of these latest dumpy darlings command corrosive curbside appeal, having probably stained the back rows of innumerable mud-lot markets over their long, shitty, slow-ass existences, and would have immediately been cheerfully cubed had any other semi-sensible organization ended up in possession of their tired, rotten, mouse-eaten carcasses.

Lucky one tail light is still... wait- no, it's broken, too.

  How and when it was decided that a 1957 Studebaker Champion should occupy the ledger of what some experts are calling "Operation South Bender" will likely remain among the many mysteries whose unraveling will be left to the archivists, accountants, and authors of what are sure to be a glut of tell-all biographies, sensationally slapped together to capitalize on the public's ravenous, bottomless appetite for self-destruction and comedic ineptitude.
  The President, secretly self-satisfied with the stricken Stude, has allocated double-digit funding to the Operation, making it one of the most expensive and grandiose ever undertaken, and probably among the most likely to result in grievous financial misconduct at every level. Flagrantly exorbitant purchases like 2 exhaust valves and a like number of connecting rod bearings are running up the red ink like an alcoholic, gambling-addicted televangelist whose wife just left him for a cute tattoo artist named Fiona. If there is enough capital left in the Company at the conclusion of this Operation to throw an old blanket over the seats in the crispy, threadbare interior, this reporter will be surprised indeed.
   Somewhere in the backs of their minds, many an auto aficionado will keep a list, long or short (or both, of course) of the cars that they will buy if they get a chance. It is the humble opinion of this publication that you could probably flip through every list ever made by every car collector and you would not exactly be overwhelmed by the number of times "1967 Fury I 4-door sedan" appears in your reading.

The name is synonymous with high performance.

  Just when staff at HQ had started to get used to the newest austerity programs ("Don't Flush the Toilet Tuesdays" are a surprise hit), budgets were slashed again (Candlelight Thursdays!) to bankroll this latest Presidential Battle Cruiser acquisition. Fresh from Agent 1080's Private Limited Personal Stock of 67-8 Furies, PBC #5 has been promoted to Outdoor Storage Facility #1, joining a half-dozen other haggard hopefuls behind the Fence of Shame, awaiting various amounts of attention and, inevitably, financing.
  Seeking to cash in (5 years too late, of course) on the muscle-car craze that has all but ruined the entire hobby, the President figures he can retire on the windfall he will surely realize when he flogs his original paint, three-on-the-tree, radio-deletee sweetie for maximum profit. Agents, fearful of invoking the legendary profanity, have been reluctant to remind el Grande Imbecilo that an important part of the muscle car experience is actually the big engine.

Another blue-chip stock; FoS needs extension already.

  Not that it even runs, either. This slant six is locked up like Manson, scheduled for replace- ment as soon as another can be located. Will this new Cruiser force the retirement of the legend, Battle Cruiser #3? Will 5 years mark the end of the reign of the 1972 Fury II coupe as Winter Beater Champion? Is it even a good idea to try? 
  "I don't care about your winter beater bullshit, I'm a muscle car guy now." said the President in an interview earlier today, trying on white sunglasses at London Drugs and getting some nervous looks from the staff, wary of the catastrophically inebriated.
   "Now is my time... I can feel it... coolness is within my grasp.

   Nonchalant confidence, thy name is Fury I."
  All Agents are reminded to start bringing their own chairs to the office, and report to Agent 086 to pick up your requisite rubber hose for "Siphoning Saturdays".