Unfortunately, you can’t buy this car anymore*. Not from the safety of your seat, anyway. You’ll have to actually get close, admire its outta-sight! bodywork, its wheels that could harbor an entire Albanian refugee family, and the custom tonneau cover stolen from Batman’s skate park. You’ll have to meet its intrepid seller in Viva Las Vegas, smell the Drakkar Noir emanating from his pointy chest hairs, shield your eyes from his Montezuman gold amulet, grasp his ring-laden hands, look him in his sunglasses, and make the man an offer! That’s how we do business in America, friend! That’s how we keep the Cordoba’s memory alive!
From the looks of it, it didn’t sell (I wonder why). But for $5,800, you could be (could have been) Captain Kirk’s nemesis!
Where do you begin with such a creation? For one, let’s look at what it has: it’s got 22″ wheels on tires that aren’t so much rubber as they are painted on with a Home Depot roller. It’s got white leather seats, which in Vegas seems to be handed out to new residents along with their change-of-address cards and Welcome Wagon baskets. It’s got a big-block 440 hooked up to a TorqueFlite somewhere. It’s got a “winshield cut 5 inches and layed back 3 inches with lexon windshield [sic].” It’s got vents behind the seats. It’s got the wafting scent of Purple Kush enveloping it in a 30-foot radius. And it’s got enough primer to choke an African elephant.
So, what does it not have? Rich Corinthian leather, a fact that has undoubtedly caused a greying septuagenarian from Chrysler Marketing: First Class to spit Ralph’s Value Brand™ High-Fiber Prune Juice all over his TV tray. There’s no radio, so you can’t hear it blasting “Freak On A Leash” when it drives past the middle school. There is no backseat. There are no tailights or turn signals, which will surely prove to be a hit with the local constabulary. And most importantly, of course, it doesn’t have a roof—proving that the TOP DOWN, ALL THE TIME adage isn’t so much a tattoo as it is a lifestyle, a bout of braggadocio, a deep chance of ensuing melanoma and a likely possibility that GeoEye-1 will photograph your bald spot from low-earth orbit.
And furthermore, it’s got, uh, not the approval of a Ricardo Montablán, who surely would have balked at what his beloved luxury coupe might have become: a pseudo-70s Batmobile, had Bruce Wayne violated the Organian Peace Treaty. But for serving as an automotive Six Degrees of Hispanic Actors, it certainly has its merits. And even though it might confirm your ex-girlfriend’s deepest suspicions at your high school reunion, I gotta say—Corinthian leather or not, those seats still look damn comfy.
* Blame my whooshing of deadlines and general ineptitude. But if it gets relisted for half the price, I’M YOUR MAN.