The texts between J and I went something like this:
J: Hey guess what’s sitting at the muffler shop on our street?
Me, spinning in my chair at work: Oh, a DeLorean?
J: Oh damn, I didn’t think you had seen it yet.
Me: HOLY SHIT THERE IS A DELOREAN?!
J: You just guessed that? You didn’t see it?!
Me: NO! JEBUS! A DELOREAN!
I convinced, er, ahem, drug J over the half a block after I got off work. Specifically, drug him over as my cameraman.
The grizzled old mechanic, with a cigarette hanging from his lips, rolled his eyes and told me to open the door for the full effort. Don’t have to tell me twice.
I still giggle, and sometimes whisper in hushed tones, when I drive by it, especially aided in the last week when they’ve kept it on the outdoor lift, like a trophy to my lame obsession.
She really does this: We drove by it, she giggled and said “DeLorean!” Every time. For three days.
It is unknown whether or not Matt Lauer, cyborg from the year 2078, used a DeLorean to travel back through time. It is possible.
That car is smexy!
Coolest. Car. Ever.