The Day She Flew The Coupe
What manner of woman is this, you ask, who stands in the midst of a mountain stream eating a peach?
Actually she’s a normal everyday girl except that she and her husband own the Corvette Coupe in the background. (He’s at work right now, wondering where he misplaced his car keys.)
The temptation, you see, was overpowering. They’d had the car a whole week now. And not once had he offered to let her drive. His excuse was that this, uh, was a big hairy sports car. Too much for a woman to handle: the trigger-quick steering, the independent rear suspension, the disc brakes—plus the 4-Speed transmission and that 425-hp engine they had ordered—egad! He would teach her to drive it some weekend.
So he said.
That’s why she hid the keys, forcing him to seek public transportation. Sure of his departure, she went to the garage, started the Corvette, and was off for the hills, soon up shifting and downshifting as smoothly as he. His car hard to drive. What propaganda!