Namely, the programs of December 4 and 11. With a tear in his voice, Petrov told the Russians that almost all cars arriving to us from abroad were “iron designers” welded from several bodies and scattering right on our perfectly flat roads.
The people - who understand, and who ride every day or sell these crumbling designers, laughed! The arguments made in the program are clearly intended for housewives, youths with a weak mind and retired pensioners, who had been rescued from exploitation of the first Victories and Volga.
The author complains: they changed the door, the wing and picked up the paint in such a way that no signs of repair are visible! Everything shines, everything shines! But it is silent how many beaten-broken triples and sixes, cornfields and Volga with skewed doors, sagging luggage racks, curved "faces" roll around Russia. After all, there are only a few normal stands, a tool is a sledgehammer and a hammer: everything is done by eye, and it is also painted by eye.
But Russian cars beat much more often, since the roads are shit, the rubber is shit, the structure is forty years old, archaic. It turns out - the whole life of a motorist is crap! In Russian cars … You sit in your old Mercedes: your unique skin smell, the engine rumbled somewhere in the bowels, the transmission clearly snaps off, silence and warmth in the passenger compartment - the car floats smoothly, imposingly passing through our potholes. And what about the fact that ten years ago some German burgher drove this car - they drink a little while driving, the roads - class, the service - are up to par.
I recently accidentally sat on our Oka for two thousand two years - this must be felt on myself! Try the difference, as they say. While I was driving 18 minutes to the bazaar, I sweated three times at the wheel of this mini-maize, and on this we drove into the 21st century! This is also a sadomasochism! After this trip, I look at people who use this miracle every day in a completely different way …
On the speedometer of my car - 257, 000 km. And I think they twisted no less. And I don't care that a friend recently found that the rear wing was once painted. Only me and he know about it now. But I do not care that according to Petrov, my car should soon crumble. In the meantime, life every day proves the opposite - I see two or three Zhigulenok on rails with wheels falling off.
And today, returning from the parking lot - ten o’clock in the evening, frost at 10 degrees, rails, 02 “Zhiguli” and a little man scurrying around with a cell phone. In the eyes of fear and bewilderment - what to do? Good luck to you dear. It's time to change the car.
city of Orsk