

This morning, DT's resident Buick lover, Hunsbloger, sent me a message. It was short. Something was wrong. Hunsbloger is never short. Hunsbloger is so wordy, he
can't send text messages, let alone tweets. His family Christmas cards unroll onto the ground like Santa's list. I always wear adult diapers when we go to car shows together where there
might be a Buick present because he is gonna rattle off
worthless interesting facts until Pontiac is brought back from the dead. Not the brand, but the frozen head of Albert Hamilton Pontiac the 3rd is resuscitated by some unknown futuristic technology. Not today. Today the message was
"Something wrong. No words." The DT brain trust initiated Emergency Protocol Number 7 and started scouring the internet for clues to Hunsbloger's sudden onset of mute-ism. And then it came. Words flowed like a dam had ruptured at the headwaters of the river Styx and we were powerless against the onslaught. Knowing there was only one way to fix our fallen comrade, I forwarded the link for this
1949 Buick Super Woody Wagon Could Be Redone As A Gorgeous 1949 Cadillac, Oldsmobile 98 or Buick Roadmaster
currently bidding for $8,400 reserve-not-met with 5 days to go. And then the reply:
"He has sucked all of the
words out of the universe. I'm depleted, I need to rest, to store
up. Its like a wizard who has performed too many spells in one
day, and I need a booster." Hunsbloger was back, but will he ever be the same?