If I were a cat, I would sing of memories

Advertising my 1993 Honda Civic in the classifieds under as a $750 fixer-upper was bound to elicit response.

Yet, these were not the kind of people who were willing fix her up. These were the kind of people who would sue me when something goes wrong with the car, even though I forewarned them about the problem.

One man sounded promising -- he knew, at least, what a CV joint is.

He wanted to look at the car today at 11 a.m. As it was, the car had not been cranked in a couple of weeks. Even still, the gas inside the tank -- which was rather low -- was nearly a month old.

I thought it best to start the car, top off the fluids and air up the tires. It needed all the help available.

It wouldn't start.

Off to the gas station, I flew like a flash -- though if I had flown with one, I might have been killed. It's a flammable substance, you know.

After putting a few gallons in the drink hole, I tried again. Still, I got nothing. It turned over and all, but it didn't crank.

Battery, you fool.

I have found a downside to my Buick: the battery connections. They are nothing more than glorified nuts -- as in the counterpart of bolts.

To solve my problem I called a scrap yard, and they gave me $175.