And the winner is . . .
One long-ass paragraph: After waxing the racing stripes on my woody, she buffed my chassis with hands as smooth as a chamois. I compensated by adjusting her headlights and performing a tune-up, revving her engine until it purred. Her wheels flanking my underbody, I inserted my dipstick to make sure she was sufficiently lubed, then scoped out her spark plugs with my diagnostic tool. She lost all cruise control then, begging for more torque and increased acceleration, pushing me beyond the speed limit with a flagrant disregard for improved gas mileage. No problem with my 6-speed manual transmission. I greased her rear spoiler before she clamped her fenders around my exhaust outlet. I almost lost it while tailgating her, but managed to keep my tire properly inflated. I shifted into gear, applying my hydraulic clutch, which sent her anti-lock braking system into overdrive. Traction control became difficult with all the skidding and fishtailing. Then our radiators started to steam so we flipped on the defoggers. When her bucket seat lurched, I ratcheted her safety belt as my rod pistoned her battery. I thrust into fourth gear with a powerful gas emission, blew my horn, and burned rubber across the finish line.
Props to Daisy Dexter DobbsDaisy, I'll be emailing you just as soon as I figure out how to do a Barnes & Noble gift certificate. Thanks to all for playing! D.