A Diamond that was Rough

Me Grandpa Joe smoked. A lot. He paid for it in more ways than one.

On a road trip years ago, he flicked a cigarette butt out of his window as he drove. Unfortunately the window behind the driver's seat was rolled down. The smoldering butt flew through the opening and set the back seat on fire. Before Joe could do anything about that except pull over and, I think, retrieve his luggage, the car was in flames. A total loss.

Yet he still needed to get home. As luck would have it he wasn't very far away from a junk yard. Joe ambled in to see if they might anything, anything at all, which was drivable.

The proprietor offered him an old vehicle of some sort (If you're a Ford guy call it a Chevy, if a Chevy guy a Ford, if a Chrysler man just keep your mouth shut) which was absolutely deplorable even by Joe standards. It barely ran, and the body was held together by willpower and the grace of God. The tires were well blanched and balding rubber. As me Grandpa listened to it run he asked, "What do you want for it?"

"Fifty bucks," came the reply. "And it goes up every time you open your mouth."

Joe paid him fifty dollars and got home with his newfound, uh, treasure.