Since I’m going to be having a colonoscopy while you’re reading and analyzing this, I assumed a colonnade would be an analogous subject for this morning. Sadly, they’re not exactly common on the streets anymore, but I did spot this one recently as I passed, abutting this building. And it’s a Cutlass, no less. Even the color is right. Just what the doctor ordered.
That’s not meant to be crass or an aspersion on this Cutlass sedan. But by 1977, these were a bit banal, given the new classy B-Bodies that had just come out. One would assume that any assured analysis between one of these and the B-Body would result in an asessment in favor of the B, with its greater stylistic assets. But then these colonnades were of course less expensive, a bit declasse, which probably explains the dog dishes on it. This is not likely a colonel’s former car; somebody was obviously a cheapass.
And it’s for sale. Here’s your chance to have a fecal-brown Colonnade, and 100% cancer-free. The scuttlebutt is that this price is chickenshit, given what a fine car it is. I’d buttonhole Jim as fast you can.
How many shades of brown are present and accounted for? But it’s nice and clean; someone did a fine job prepping it. No risk of catching tetanus here. No buttons in the vinyl, though; that would have required a higher class of trim. One of our former contributors might well have used the analogy “buttery”. I wouldn’t.
What is this thing colonizing the rear seat? “Street Hopper”? A probe of some sort? Upon closer examination, it appears to be some kind of portable speaker system, something to excite the tympanal organ with its assertive bass. Is it digital or analog? Does it come with the car, is it to be excised?
We’ve come to the best part: the Cutlass’ rear end. Of course, you may not be an ass-man, and have a rebuttal to my opinion. Frankly, I’m not really in the mood to over-analyze it tonight as I have more pressing things on my mind, like downing
64 128 ounces of my favorite lemon-flavored artisanal cocktail. Be assured; it’s not exactly going to be a bacchanalian orgy at the Niedermeyers’ tonight. And I’m going to have to pass on the Shitake-butterbean casserole Stephanie made.
But you can be assured that it won’t be a dull evening; things will be moving right along. It gives me butterflies of anticipation. And it won’t take psychoanalysis to discern my mood as I utilize John Crapper’s brilliant invention. Repeatedly.
I’m almost embarrassed to admit that writing about this colonnade—despite the repeated interruptions—has been a pleasant diversion; an analgesic, actually. It’s a treat when the words and analogies just flow, like effluent in a canal. But all good things must pass.