Pontiac Car Quotes

Just bought a vintage Pontiac GTO,” he said. “Fine car. I put polished headers on it, big bore pipes. Goes like shit off a shiny shovel.” I said nothing. “You like muscle cars?” “No,” I said. “I like to take the bus.” “That’s not much fun.” “OK, let me put it another way. I’m happy with the size of my penis. I don’t need compensation.” He

Did you go to the the theatre last time you were here? 'No, it's too expensive.' 'What did you do?' 'What tourists always do in New York City. Empire State, Statue of and all the galleries. There's a million galleries.' 'Where'd you stay?' 'The first two nights, I slept in an abandoned car. A Pontiac Grand Am.' Weren't you scared?' 'Not really. It had a doorman.

Carly and I lost our virginity there in the backseat of my dad's Pontiac on a cold January night, with the snow falling like a curtain over the fogged-up car windows and George Michael singing “Careless Whisper” on the car stereo. To this day, the opening bars of the sax solo instantly take me back to that night. Say what you will about car sex, but thirty million horny teenagers can't be wrong.

I tried to reason with him. 'You're like one of those people who's more scared of flying than driving, even though you're way more likely to die in a car.' 'Yeah, but if I'm in my 1981 Pontiac, at least I'm going out in style.

Yet even that equality within the American middle classes had started to erode. The new models of car, for example, were categorised by rank and status. For those starting out there was the Chevrolet, next came the Pontiacs, Oldsmobiles and Buicks, while the seriously rich drove Cadillacs. Not only that; buying and consuming were increasingly a social norm. You had to drive a new Pontiac, and by 1959 anyone still riding around in a 1956 model was

Auto-Zoomar. Talbert knelt in the a tergo posture, his palms touching the wing-like shoulder blades of the young woman. A conceptual flight. At ten-second intervals the Polaroid projected a photograph on to the screen beside the bed. He watched the auto-zoom close in on the union of their thighs and hips. Details of the face and body of the film actress appeared on the screen, mimetized elements of the planetarium they had visited that morning. Soon the parallax would close, establishing the equivalent geometry of the sexual act with the junctions of this wall and ceiling. ‘Not in the Literal Sense.’Conscious of Catherine Austin’s nervous hips as she stood beside him, Dr Nathan studied the photograph of the young woman. ‘Karen Novotny,’ he read off the caption. ‘Dr Austin, may I assure you that the prognosis is hardly favourable for Miss Novotny. As far as Talbert is concerned the young woman is a mere modulus in his union with the film actress.’ With kindly eyes he looked up at Catherine Austin. ‘Surely it’s self-evident - Talbert’s intention is to have intercourse with Miss Taylor, though needless to say not in the literal sense of that term.’ Action Sequence. Hiding among the traffic in the near-side lane, Koester followed the white Pontiac along the highway. When they turned into the studio entrance he left his car among the pines and climbed through the perimeter fence. In the shooting stage Talbert was staring through a series of colour transparencies. Karen Novotny waited passively beside him, her hands held like limp birds. As they grappled he could feel the exploding musculature of Talbert’s shoulders. A flurry of heavy blows beat him to the floor. Vomiting through his bloodied lips, he saw Talbert run after the young woman as she darted towards the car. The Sex Kit.‘In a sense,’ Dr Nathan explained to Koester, ‘one may regard this as a kit, which Talbert has devised, entitled “Karen Novotny” - it might even be feasible to market it commercially. It contains the following items: (1) Pad of pubic hair, (2) a latex face mask, (3) six detachable mouths, (4) a set of smiles, (5) a pair of breasts, left nipple marked by a small ulcer, (6) a set of non-chafe orifices, (7) photo cut-outs of a number of narrative situations - the girl doing this and that, (8) a list of dialogue samples, of inane chatter, (9) a set of noise levels, (10) descriptive techniques for a variety of sex acts, (11) a torn anal detrusor muscle, (12) a glossary of idioms and catch phrases, (13) an analysis of odour traces (from various vents), mostly purines, etc., (14) a chart of body temperatures (axillary, buccal, rectal), (15) slides of vaginal smears, chiefly Ortho-Gynol jelly, (16) a set of blood pressures, systolic 120, diastolic 70 rising to 200/150 at onset of orgasm . . . ’ Deferring to Koester, Dr Nathan put down the typescript. ‘There are one or two other bits and pieces, but together the inventory is an adequate picture of a woman, who could easily be reconstituted from it. In fact, such a list may well be more stimulating than the real thing. Now that sex is becoming more and more a conceptual act, an intellectualization divorced from affect and physiology alike, one has to bear in mind the positive merits of the sexual perversions. Talbert’s library of cheap photo-pornography is in fact a vital literature, a kindling of the few taste buds left in the jaded palates of our so-called sexuality.

Harry LeSabre was too choked up to point out to Dwayne that, no matter what he looked like, he was generally acknowledged to be one of the most effective sales managers for Pontiac not only in the State, but in the entire Middle West. Pontiac was the best-selling automobile in the Midland City area, despite the fact that it was not a low-price car. It was a medium-price car.

Stage 2 Skylark drag race package of 1970 contributed a unique hood scoop, which (in reproduction form) has been adopted by hip Buick drag racers across the country. Loosely patterned after the steel scoop used on heavy Ford trucks (and adopted by Pontiac for its 1963 421 Super Duty cars), Buick’s

Pontiac had high hopes for the VOE option and even produced a 60-second TV spot depicting it in action. In the commercial, a silver 1970 GTO hardtop slowly cruised through the parking lot of a drive-through hamburger joint at night. Faces turn as the driver, looking cool and collected, reaches down and pulls the control knob. The already potent exhaust note increases to a raspy burble as more heads turn. The commercial ends with the words: “The Humbler is here, this is the way it’s going

Pontiacs, Oldsmobiles, Buicks – manufactured by General Motors, the most vigorous purveyor of philistine vulgarity the world has ever known ["Car Crush: Why American Writers and Artists Can’t Stop Loving the Automobile," The Millions, August 4, 2015]

They took a wad of modelling clay from the Art Room and stuffed it in the tailpipe of the kid’s Pontiac. You know what happened?” She glanced at him doubtfully. “No—what?” “Blew the muffler off in two pieces,” he said. “One on each side of the car. They flew like shrapnel. The muffler was the weak point, you see. I suppose if the gases had backflowed all the way to the engine, they might have blown the cylinders right out of the block.

Is that them?” “No, that’s a Pontiac.” “It is?” Angela watched it go by. “Well, what were they in?” “A Chevrolet.” “I can’t tell the difference,” she admitted. “There isn’t any.” She looked at me, to see if I was kidding, and said, “Then how do you tell them apart?” “The hood ornament. All General Motors cars have different hood ornaments. That’s so the salesmen can tell how much to charge.

The Pontiac dented and rust-flecked meant it was 1974, since cars are the way working-class people of the deep south truly mark their time. Listen to them sometime, when they’re roping for a memory – they will find it next to a yellow Oldsmobile.

gas. It’s the same always with a lazy man like that. He hates moving so much that once he gets set on it, he will keep on and not stop—like it isn’t the moving he hates so much at all, but the starting and stopping. And once moving, he is so proud he’ll do whatever to make it look easy for him but hard on the others, so he can lord it over them later. So I wasn’t surprised at all when we went out and got in the car, and Bud starts the truck and drives off real careful, and Turkey, he sits in the back of the Pontiac and gives directions like he knows the way. Which riles Mr. Ackerman, and the two of them have words. JOHNNY

He led the USFL with 28 sacks for 199 yards lost (both professional football records), but also led in manic mayhem. Early on during training camp, Corker—nicknamed Sack Man—gathered the team in a circle and guided the Panthers in prayer. “He started praying like a Baptist black preacher,” said Dave Tipton, a defensive tackle, “and I thought, Wow, Corker must walk with the Lord.” Not quite. Blessed with the world’s largest penis, Corker never shied away from showing it off to fellow Panthers. “The biggest johnson in the USFL,” said Matt Braswell, the team’s center. “We had women reporters come into the locker room, and Corker would position himself so he was in full view of any females. He had this vat of Nivea skin cream, and he would just make sure to completely rub it and moisturize it.” Corker operated on a clock that required only two to three hours of sleep per night, and was powered by the dual fuels of alcohol and cocaine. He kept a gun in his car’s glove compartment, missed as many meetings as he attended, and proudly pasted his pay stubs to his locker, so that teammates could marvel at the money he was being docked. Once, Hebert drove with Corker from Pontiac to Detroit for a promotional appearance. It was snowing outside, the roads were slippery—“and Corker was driving, smoking one joint after another,” said Hebert. “We both walked in reeking of pot.” In a USFL urban legend that actually checks out, Corker was once found naked on the ice at Joe Louis Arena in the early-morning hours. He had passed out, and spent so much time on the cold surface that some of his skin had to be ripped off. “That,” said Bentley, “surprised none of us.

Maybe his thinking had been affected by the attitude of the age, in which a man tended to be less and less identified as an individual and more and more regarded based on the symbolic status of the car he drove. When a stranger rode down the street, one seldom thought of him as a person; one’s only immediate reaction was, “There goes a Ford — there goes a Pontiac — there goes one of those big goddam Imperials.” And men bragged about their cars instead of their characters.

Pontiac Firebird Trans Am (turbo V6) – 4.6secs