I'm really gonna miss that car.

Last summer, I experienced a catastrophic loss of Zoom when my Ford Probe GT died on the 110. By the time I made it to the shoulder, popped open the hood, and took a frantic look-see, it had emptied all of its precious radiator fluid, like an old incontinent dog. Poor puppy.

Since then it's been to 4 mechanics. A thermostat was replaced. A radiator was replaced. A coolant reservoir tank was replaced. It no longer pisses coolant all over the place, but it's still got issues.

I want it fixed! But all of my so-called friends urge me to junk it and buy another car.

Get a Toyota, the sensible ones say. Weak. Toyota drivers vex me to no end; sometimes I wonder if that butt-ugly Prius in front of me is electronically limited to like 3 miles an hour. Shouting "step on the gas!" would be pointless, as the blonde upper-middle class dork behind the wheel would just stare blankly at me and mouth "what's a 'gas'?"

Get a Chevy, say the cool kids, the ones who drive like me. But these asinine Team Chevy "cheerleaders," these knuckle-dragging troglodytes, with their shiny rims and dual exhausts; these gangstas and wannabees are just not sexy at all. They make me want to fake my own death. I talk about my car and Camaro owners nationwide smirk collectively, "Dontcha know what FORD stands for? Found On the Road Dead (or Fix Or Repair Daily," or some variant that wasn't even funny the first 300 times), har har har. I understand Camaro appeal: floor the gas pedal, listen to that V8 roar, check out all the losers in your rear-view. Like illiterate Camaro owners, it's simple enough, but it's just not quite my style.

The Ford Probe GT, Motor Trend's car of the year in 1993, is a cute little rocket that drives with the finesse and agility of a fucking Porsche, for 1/5 the price. A set of Nexen tires grabs the road and doesn't let go, ever. On the freeway, turns get taken at 90 mph. Absolutely no exceptions, save than that SUV driver on his cellphone in front of me. Ya just can't corner like that in a Camaro.

And yes, the car takes off fast enough.... not like a V8, but it is quite a treat. You're gonna really feel it, however, when you shoot your tach up over 4000 rpms. The car surges forward as if being tugged by the inscrutable Hand of God. "Like a bat out of West Hades," mechanic #4 told me the other day.

My speedometer doesn't work, but honestly, what do you need silly frills like that for anyway? If I can't pace myself with traffic around me, I gauge my speed by listening to the rich, smooth hum of my MagnaFlow muffler. It sings with my tach like a saxophone by moonlight.

Lest you get the wrong idea, my Blue Bullet is by NO means a chick magnet. I've got an effed-up paint job and a suspension system only I know how to stomach. I'm the king of the hairpin curves, but I shall reign alone. There. Will. Be. No. Chicks. To distract me. Ever.

My inner Zoom wouldn't have it any other way.