These cars don’t guzzle; they chug-a-lug

There is far worse automotive angst than getting 10 miles a gallon.

Try getting ZERO miles to the gallon.

Such was my fate last weekend. I put the key in the ignition of my 1967 Oldsmobile Vista Guzzler. I turned it to the right.

Click.

Click. Click.

Click.

Deader than Larry Bud Melman.

That my land yacht was marooned deep within the Davenport Hotel’s subterranean parking garage compounded this insidious state of immobility.

DAMN!

What better time to choose the winners of my Infernal Combustion Contest.

Two weeks ago, I wrote about driving my vintage station wagon to Coeur d’Alene for a hamburger at Hudson’s. Counting the $17.64 it took in premium gas for a round trip, my burger and pop ended up costing $23.47.

So I asked octane addicts to share their misery. All they had to do was convince me that their mileage was more wretched than mine.

Note: Not one woman entered my contest. Hmm. Could that old stereotype about testosterone and horsepower be true?

A shocking number of entries hovered in the 6 to 8 mpg range.

On behalf of Al Gore: Shame on all of you ozone killers.

There were some pretty hilarious non-winners, too.

•Paul Roberge, for example, tried to enter the railroad locomotives he engineers for BNSF.

Each locomotive consumes “300 gallons of #2 diesel to go from Hauser to Tri-Cities and 500 gallons” for the more uphill voyage home.

Now that’s some serious guzzling.

“I’m sure glad that I don’t have to buy the fuel,” Roberge added.

•Marc Fleming gave me a pick of his “pristine” 1977 Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow II or his “stellar” 1963 Bentley.

Well, isn’t that special.

Sorry, Marc. Your cars may drink like Lindsay Lohan. But anyone with a Rolls and a Bentley doesn’t need my cheesy $25.

•A Spokane County inmate who called himself a member of my “jailhouse fan club” also tried to worm in on a piece of the action.

“I like free money but I have a slight problem,” he wrote. “I don’t own a car.”

In the end I selected my three $25 recipients based on sheer entertainment value.

Guzzler 1 – Mark Snover and his cherry red 1972 Cadillac Eldorado convertible.

The Spokane man said his car has some unusual features besides its behemoth and insatiable power plant.

First, “the engine compartment is longer than my son’s Honda Accord – we measured it!”

And second, “it has a three-body capacity trunk, which, as any Mafioso worth his Sicilian necktie can tell you, dramatically reduces the gas mileage – depending on the size of the wise guy in the trunk.”

After he fed me that line, it didn’t matter to me that Snover hasn’t actually checked his mileage.

The court reporter said he won’t do it until he gets a prescription for Prozac.

But, “it’s a real treat to watch the speedometer go in one direction while the gas gauge races to the exact opposite direction.”

Guzzler 2 – John May and his 1976 Ford F-250 pickup.

The Chewelah resident reported his “driving around town” mileage as a positively dreadful 5.5 mpg.

How bad is that?

A former student told the retired teacher: “That’s what my dad gets on his logging truck.”

May’s rig (with a 460 cubic-inch engine) fares somewhat better on the highway. Even so, winning 25 bucks wouldn’t be much of a prize if I don’t mail it to him.

“Regular gas in Chewelah costs $2.64.9 and it would take about 13.3 gallons ($35.23) to make the round trip.”

Guzzler 3 – Paul Staeheli and his 1981 GMC pickup.

Staeheli works for the city of Spokane as a recycling supervisor.

So, in a sense, we can say that Paul is actually doing the Earth a favor by keeping his gas hog on the road.

Right. And I’m an underwear model.

“It must be passing gas straight through the system with very little of the nutrients being absorbed by the internal organs,” he wrote.

With twin 18-gallon gas tanks and a 454 engine, Staeheli said he averages 6.5 mpg at 65 mph.

“Like your hot rod, it will only run on premium, even if I put in those lead substitutes that claim to silence the knocking.”

I know just how he feels.

“Your gas pains pale next to my diuretic pickup truck,” wrote Staeheli. “… Quit your whining.”

Actually, I stopped whining once I got my Vista Guzzler out of the Davenport Hotel’s concrete underbelly.

That took a call to AAA, which summoned a tow truck driver named Jim.

Fortunately, Jim is a skinny guy. He wound up having to crawl under my wagon and use a tire iron to hot-wire my car. Apparently something in my ignition system is awry.

But thanks to Jim, I was able to drive out of the garage under my own power.

I need to seriously think about getting a bus pass.