If you thought guys with terrible smelling houses were bad, put that sucker on four wheels and try to control your gag reflex. When you open the passenger side door and get a whiff, it's like being bitchslapped by the angry ghost of a McNugget. His rusty chariot deathmobile smells like cat's breath mixed with a beer-stained, cigarette burned couch cushion.
The interior of his car looks like a crime scene: there are fries under the seat, stiff from fast food rigor mortis. Garbage is strewn everywhere and cracked cassette tapes line the floor. Empty Coke cans are jammed in every crevice. It's like the inside of a meth addict's brain in there. Yikes.
He knew that he was picking you up for a date. Couldn't he have at least cleared away the Big Mac wrappers and moldy coffee cups? Are you going on a date with Wesley Willis? Is he pulling a Jewel and living in his car? Is he morally opposed to air fresheners? What the eff?
Sorry, guys with crummy cars, but we cannot hang with you. We don't care how awesome your record collection is, how many friends you have that bartend and can hook us up with free drinks, or how well you can email us funny flickr photos while we are at work: your shitshow of an automobile is a bonerkiller.