When a cranial portion of the Cerberus-esque poodle we call Jalopnik was wee, he had a friend named Robert. Robert had a stupid-hot older sister named Chablis. Robert's family had a "Forget The Dog, Beware of Owner" sticker in their front window. They also had a Pomeranian named Hop Sing. And an RX-4 wagon in the backyard, along with a '53 Panhead and Robert's '70 Mini Trail. They had a Hatfield-and-McCoy relationship with the family across the street. Robert's grandparents lived down the street and had an immaculate C-Body Fury and its antithesis, a perfect pale-blue Datsun 510. And lots and lots of soda. We'd sit in the trunk of the Plymouth and drink soda. Robert's dad memorably told him that he had "starting fluid on the brain." Robert also had a Cox-powered tether-plane that nearly cut his finger off while he was trying to start it. Robert was either the unluckiest or the luckiest guy we've ever known. We miss that guy. We like to believe he grew up to be the Cooter Davenport of Klamath Falls, Oregon. And we like to think he owns every one of the wonderous one-lunged miniature miracles on the linked page. And that he still has all of his fingers.
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