Who wants to give me $3500 so I can buy the '66 Cadillac Pimp Mobile for sale up the street?

Its distinctive 60's gold is like a beacon in a sea of marketing-survey approved blues, reds, and silvers. It's got fins. Why the fuck don't more cars have fins? It's a shame that went out of style. It takes up approximately two-and-a-half parking spots and probably gets about 3 miles to the gallon, but I don't care about the planet nearly as much as I care about how frickin' sexy I would look behind the wheel of this baby.

No, I don't have a license. If I had a ride this fly, I'd go get one. Why waste my time taking tests and dealing with the RMV unless there's a pimp mobile at the end of the rainbow?

I can picture it now: I cruise into Davis Square, pop it into neutral, and crank the stereo to THUMPIN'. Hoochies come running from all corners of Somerville to dance around my vehicle. This whip was made for ghost ridin', ladies and gentlemen, and I'm just the man to fulfill its destiny.

What does your $3500 get you?

• Automatic shotgun privileges for life.
• First crack at the ghost ridin' hoochies.
• Free autographed 8 x 12 of me lying across the hood in a matching gold Speedo.
• Title of Associate Vice President of Pimpin'.
• Monthly ride to Target.
• Warm, fuzzy feeling you can only get from helping your fellow man achieve something historic.

Plus it's tax deductible. Probably.