This tragic tale has been read times.
The Birth of Willy

It was Easter Sunday in 1994 and over 100 degrees in Las Vegas. I had already payed for my new vw, but the previous owner was fixing an oil pan leak or something, so I didn't have it yet. The phone rang at about 10:30 am or so, and it was the bug guy telling me he was done. I immediately begged for someone to give me a ride across town to get it. I didn't have my driver's license yet, so my dad took my aunt and me to go get it. After the 35 minute drive, there it was! A white, 1976 Volkswagen Beetle, with bubbled window tinting and in dire need of a paint job. I got in the driver's seat, rolled down the windows, opened the sunroof, and started it up! Vroom, Vroom, VROOOOOOOM!!!! Woohoo! There's nothing in the world like going 70 on the freeway in your new bug! Everyone loved it, but none as much as I did, of course.
The Life of Willy

Ok. So I got it painted, dented a fender, fixed the fender, got the windows tinted, tore out the 1970's style fuzzy, black carpet, put in some new charcoal carpet, replaced the accelerator cable 6 or 7 or 8 or 9 times (don't we all), stickered the windows, decorated the inside with my friend Joby's and my last 1 dollar bill, a troll with light up eyes, and a plastic Riker doll, named him after my "Slick Willy" snowboard wax, gave him his last name after "William T. Riker" from Star Trek, locked the keys in with the ignition on, ripped the front bumper off at Joby's house, it got "decorated" with spit, confetti, balloons, and posters by 2 of my good friends, got the fuel injection fixed 5 or 6 or 7 or 8 times, got the fuel injection torn out, "adjusted" the new carb to pass smog, "adjusted" the new carb so the car would run, named the always-broken passenger side the "retarded side," drove to Disneyland, drove to school, to our favorite Mexican restauraunt: Macayo's, to work, to graduation, to Disneyland again, to the lake, to Reno, back to Vegas, back to Reno, back to Vegas, and so on. We spoke to and of the car as if it was a human being, gave him birthday cards, and "stroked my Willy" when it was cold outside and he needed a little extra "pick me up." Whew! Thus ends the life of Willy.
The Death of Slick Willy T Riker

On December 20, 1996, 8:15 or so a.m., I was driving home to Vegas for Christmas break. Just outside of Fallon, NV, I fell asleep. I awoke when I found myself driving on the opposite shoulder of the 2 lane highway. I slammed on the brakes (dumb), and turned back toward the street (dumb). It started to turn a bit, skidded around perpendicular to the street, skidded sideways, and started to roll. I remember hitting the side of my head and shoulder on the window/ground on the first roll, and then standing up in the dirt about 30 yards from where the car had stopped rolling and had landed right side up, but horribly mangled. I told myself not to freak out, made sure I had no broken bones, and flagged down a cop that happened to drive by within a few minutes. After 10 hours in the hospital, my dad came up from Vegas, and we went to the gravesite- oh, I mean towtruck place- to get all my junk out. My poor, humanized Slick Willy T Riker is dead. Now, 6 months later, I still haven't gotten my new bug, I still haven't gotten rid of the huge bruise on my left knee, and I still haven't seen the Christmas pictures with my black eye. Hrmph.
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