Me:
Classic mid-size, luxury-sports car. Achieves best milage in rural areas, but also performs well in the city. Suitable for family outings, nights on the town, mild off-road excursions and light hauling.
Equipped with original factory options with minor cosmetic alterations.
A 1948 Buick with mud-flaps and a chrome duck on the hood.
I am:
A compact, highly fuel-efficient car that seats only two people and has minimal cargo space, but is capable of going cross-country comfortably and without refueling. Not extremely fast, but corners like a dream. Smooth handling and acceleration outweigh the mechanical problems inherit in the design. Very quiet engine starts quickly and without trouble, even on the coldest and most miserable mornings.
But I also have a tennis ball covering the antenna and a Hefty bag for a passenger-side window.
I would totally be a VW Vanagon.
I am a 1960’s Oldsmobile. My paintjobhas been worn down to the primer. When you floor it you can actually see the gas gauge making a small jump towards the E. Old car tires have been tied on to the front, back and sides to make me invulnerable. On the front, painted in bright red letters, are the words “enihcaM htaeD” with a picture of a grinning shark. When you see me barelling down to the freeway in your review mirror you immediately scatter to the shoulder or the grassy divider and when I have zoomed by you breathe a sigh of relief and reach for that emergency fifth of bourbon hidden in the glove compartment.
I’ve got a hubcap diamond star halo.
(What the hell does that mean anyway?)
I was the toast of the town. Aging gracefully, my cylinders retain the compression that allows me to leap like a scalded dog into the fray, and my operator’s diligent lubricating allows me the nimble, take-no-prisoners option to this day.
But, as with fine wine, I developed some manners - and I recognize that there are gnarlier beasts on the road - so I primarily transport my operator where he needs to go in comfort and safety, with the preserved reserve of whoopee for when he needs it…, or just happens to be on some open highway.
Not too bad off the line, either, if I do say so myself, for a middle-aged mark.
Citroën DS. 'nuff said.
Oooooh. Tansu’s a pretty car. 
Me, I’m less sophisticated than that. I’m reliable, not brand new, but hip enough for this age. I can go fast-ish, but I’d prefer to take it easy. I’m very comfortable, there’s room for everyone. Just to keep the year correct as well: I am a 1973 Peugeot 404.
[sub]I SO want one![/sub]
A newer model, with some intriguing gizmos plugged onto the dashboard and console. It’s not too impressive from the outside, but you’d catch a glint from a display and press your face up against the tinted window to see what else there is. The seats are comfortable and recline fully.
The tires give a frim grip for exhilarating turns and stops, and the engine is well-tuned but not a roaring inferno of power. It’s tough to start, but runs smoothly once it gets going.
Complete with a ragged Jack antenna ball from December 1999 and a self-depreciating Beaterz bumper sticker.
Rusted.
In the front yard, in front of a mobile home.
On blocks…
A British sporting classic, 320 horsepower, stunning looks and neck breaking acceleration. Combined with a sturdy refusal torecognise the concepts of reliability and economy. I am on first name terms with the service manager and my owner has his own coffee mug.
I am a TVR Griffith 500.
A child’s forgotten Powerwheel…
With a bad battery…
That’s been left out in the rain…
And been chewed on by the dog…
[sub]Pow-pow-powerwheels.[/sub]
Knackered.
A squadron of loose nuts and bolts flying in close formation.
I have my top down and I’m a smooth ride.
I am an 18 wheeler fully loaded. I have all kinds of baggage; some I don’t know where I picked up. I can climb any hill and still be in the number 2 lane of the freeway.
My headlights only shine directly in front of me so I have about 2 meters visibility.
I rarely go slower than 100 kph.
A jeep. Not a new citified, namby-pamby, take-my-kids-to-polo-while-sipping-my-iced-mocha-latte, fireapple red jeep, but a dull olive green Willy’s jeep.
A vehicle designed for the worst roads and the worst drivers.
A vehicle you could haul wounded with one minute, dirt with the next, and then dive behind when the howitzers started aiming too close.
A vehicle you could drive into a river and up a butte and then winch it up a tree and still be able to drive it all the way to the other end of the state.
A vehicle you don’t worry about getting scraped or dinged (“Oh, my life is over! My fiberglass-and-tinfoil sedan just got a ding in it you can see with an electron microscope! It has no resale value! I’m gonna sue someone for their house and land and three years’ pay!”) because it never looked good, unless it was just the tool you needed.
Finally, a vehicle you could drive into your own garage and, with a book you rented from the library, tools you bought cheap, and your own intelligence, you could fix up and get to run correctly. A vehicle you trust because it’s a vehicle you understand and could rebuild from the bottom up.
(Needless to say, I’m a fan of open-source software and simple, clean interfaces to powerful software.)
It means Mark Bolan did one helluva lot of acid, man.
Me, I’m a hybrid between a Dodge Viper, a 47 Buick Roadmaster, and the Batmobile. With a license plate that reads “Nephilim” and a SOM sticker on my rear window.
One of my other personalities would like to speak:
“I am the LEXX. I am the most powerful weapon of destruction in the Two Universes. I was raised on the Cluster. The food was good there–”
OK, that’s enough, now.
