99FLHRCI

Here is another option for people with classic cars

http://www.jcwhitney.com/vintage-look-receivers/p2001532.jcwx?filterid=c534j1

If she was cited/found at fault you can go after her/her insurance company for more in damages. Hopefully you have receipts for some of the parts, and the car just tell them to search for similar cars in similar condition/miles and they should see that the car is worth a premium over book value. You might have to do some legwork yourself/fight the company for more money but I and many others have been in your exact shoes before, so it can be done.

 

Glad you weren't hurt, sorry to see the car damaged so bad. Good luck getting your money.

Been there, done that, works, do it

The way it works is because your insurance will only cover it for what you have it insured for ( usually blue book unless you carry extra coverage which you have to ask for and then get approved). However since she is at fault, she has deprived you of your property and has to replace it. Pictures showing the cars immaculate condition, a parts list (with receipts will help a lot) will go a long way. Just don't bend over and take it, fight back

To the OP:

If he will let you do any testing on the motor, I have a Snap-On Modis and a set of injector noid lights. Using that you could confirm the injector is being told to fire and the most likely cause of the problem.

Here is a copy of the CL ad:

Receive up to $100 for approximately 1 hour of participation

($35 plus a Performance Bonus of up to $65)

We are seeking participants for a research study of driving performance

The study will be conducted by:

The National Highway Traffic Safety Administration (NHTSA) of the U.S. Department of Transportation on the grounds of Transportation Research Center Inc. (TRC) in East Liberty, Ohio

Sessions conducted on weekdays and Saturdays during daylight hours.

MUST BE:

25-55 years old

In good general health

Licensed driver without restrictions

Have driven 7,000+ miles per year in the last 2 years

If you would like to participate, and you meet these requirements,

PLEASE CALL: 1-800-262-8309 to inquire about the “Headway Maintenance Assessment” study from 7:30 am – 4:00 pm weekdays (leave a message at extension 251 after hours) or Email name, phone number, and best time to contact you to VRTCWEBMASTER@dot.gov, add subject “Headway Maintenance Assessment” study.

http://columbus.craigslist.org/lab/1934196302.html

Found it. 1480 East Pennsylvania Avenue East Liverpool City Ohio

http://maps.google.com/maps?hl=en&expIds=17259,17291,22881,24472,25900,26087,26095,26446,26515&sugexp=ldymls&xhr=t&q=east+liverpool+ohio&cp=7&um=1&ie=UTF-8&hq=&hnear=East+Liverpool,+OH&gl=us&ei=17SITIaoJIW0lQfps9gU&sa=X&oi=geocode_result&ct=title&resnum=1&sqi=2&ved=0CCIQ8gEwAA

http://jalopnik.com/5625392/why-stealing-a-race-car-is-really-stupid?skyline=true&s=i

Why Stealing A Race Car Is Really Stupid

Why Stealing A Race Car Is Really StupidMatt Stanford parked his Mustang drag racer behind Varsity Ford in Ann Arbor, Mich., where a thief managed to snatch it. Cops reunited it with its rightful owner a day later. Here's why you don't steal race cars.

Stealing cars is right up there with strangling puppies and drowning kittens as far as we're concerned. As property crimes go, it's perpetrated by the lowest of the low and the ultimate form of "messing with someone else's car," a cardinal sin 'round these parts. That said, there are clever ways to steal a car. Stealing something generic, easy to strip and sell for parts because it's very plentiful is the smart theft. That's why Camrys and Accords are always at the top of the most stolen list. A custom-built race car meets none of these requirements. It's probably the dumbest possible car you can steal.

When Matt Stanford was on his way home from Milan Dragway, he decided to stash his cherry 1991 Mustang notchback drag racer in the locked and guarded service lot at Varsity Ford in Ann Arbor, a dealership he works at and his family owns. Nothing had ever been stolen from that lot, until Saturday.

Sometime under the cover of darkness, a 26-year-old man whose name has not been made public by authorities cut the chain, opened the gate, drove in with a pickup, hooked up the trailer and drove away. It wasn't until the morning guard did the rounds and found a missing link of chain that anyone was suspicious. Turns out the night watchman found the door open and relocked the gate; he's looking for alternate employment now.

A lot of questions haven't been answered yet, including how the thief knew it would be there. Sunday morning Matt went to pick up his 'Stang for a charity car show only to find it gone. He filed a report with the Ann Arbor police and then did what any other American might: Alert the internet.

He hopped on the Motown Muscle forum and laid out the details, posted his most recent picture of the car and hoped for the best. Matt's a moderator over there, so the community spread the world like wildfire.

Facebook, Streetfire, Toledo Tuners, CamaroZ28, Mustang Corral, Stangnet, Mustang Forums, Yellowbullet and more got blanketed with the digital APB. Pretty much anyone into cars within five hundred miles knew within hours to be on the lookout.

And this is reason number one why stealing a race car is stupid. People are passionate about cars and their friends' cars. When something like this happens, thousands of eyes will be looking for it. And when it's a totally distinctive-looking car, the odds are stacked even higher against the thief.

Reason number two: Most of the time, race cars are not street legal. They usually have straight exhausts that are too loud, slick tires, missing mirrors and lights and all kinds of track tools. The Mustang thief behind this crime decided none of that mattered and took his girlfriend out to dinner in it the very next day. He did attempt to conceal the car's true nature by swapping license plates with his Jeep.

After joyriding his newly-stolen car, the thief decided it needed a car wash. As he was polishing his ill-gotten gains, a Brighton, MIch., police officer noticed the car's slick tires and decided to run the plates. After it came back registered to a Jeep, he questioned the fellow, who offered an unconvincing excuse. The officer ran the VIN and discovered the Mustang's provenance; the suspect confessed, and is now sitting in a Livingston County jail awaiting arraignment.

At 3 A.M. Monday morning Matt got the call saying his car had been recovered, no worse for the wear and slightly cleaner. Matt tells us he's just happy to have it back in one piece.

Two things stick out about the story. We have to wonder what the thief imagined would happen to a car he stole from just 20 miles away. Would nobody notice him driving around a car built custom through and through, capable of running mid-10s in the quarter mile? Did he think such a well-built car wouldn't get noticed by people who had seen it run? Helped build it? And how do you even profit off such a car? You'd have a whole community watching out for Craigslist sales and eBay auctions of the car's parts. These are questions we can't answer, but just some of the reasons it's really dumb to steal a race car.

Given the passion the Motown Muscle community put into trying to find the car, we're thinking the crook here better be happy the cops found him first.

(Thanks to Matt, the Ann Arbor PD and the Brighton PD)

Send an email to Ben, the author of this post, at ben@jalopnik.com.

Ingredients:

* 1/2 cup mayonnaise (good quality real mayo)

* 1/4 cup Heinz ketchup

* 1/2 teaspoon garlic powder

* 1/4 teaspoon Worcestershire sauce

* ground black pepper

Directions:

Prep Time: 10 mins

Total Time: 10 mins

1. 1 Combine all ingredients and whisk until all is incorporated.

2. 2 Refrigerate after use.

Similar story from the web:

(Not News): The Best Bathroom Story Ever

I would like to share something not news-related but instead very humorous with everyone. If you do not appreciate humor or refuse to read anything not news or tech-related on this site, then wait for the next tech piece. Otherwise, read on!

All in all, it hadn’t been a good day. Bad traffic, a malfunctioning computer, incompetent coworkers and a sore back all made me a seething cauldron of rage. But more importantly for this story, it had been over forty-eight hours since I’d last taken a dump. I’d tried to jumpstart the process, beginning my day with a bowl of bowel-cleansing fiber cereal, following it with six cups of coffee at work, and adding a bean-laden lunch at Taco Bell.

As I was returning home from work, my insides let me know with subtle rumbles and the emission of the occasional tiny fart that Big Things would be happening soon. Alas, I had to stop at the mall to go Christmas shopping. I completed this task, and as I was walking past the stores on my way back to the car, I noticed a large sale sign proclaiming, “Everything Must Go!” This was prophetic, for my colon informed me with a sudden violent cramp and a wet, squeaky fart that everything was indeed about to go. I hurried to the mall bathrooms. I surveyed the five stalls, which I have numbered 1 through 5 for your convenience:

1. Occupied.

2. Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it’s next to the occupied one.

3. Poo on seat.

4. Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on seat.

5. No toilet paper, no stall door, unidentifiable sticky object near base of

toilet.

Clearly, it had to be Stall #2. I trudged back, entered, dropped trousers and

sat down. I’m normally a fairly Shameful Shitter. I wasn’t happy about being

next to the occupied stall, but Big Things were afoot.

I was just getting ready to bear down when all of a sudden the sweet sounds of Beethoven came from next door, followed by a fumbling, and then the sound of a voice answering the ringing phone. As usual for a cell phone conversation, the voice was exactly 8 dB louder than it needed to be. Out of Shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut.

The inane conversation went on and on. Mr. Shitter was blathering to Mrs. Shitter about the shitty day he had. I sat there, cramping and miserable, waiting for him to finish. As the loud conversation dragged on, I became angrier and angrier, thinking that I, too, had a crappy day, but I was too polite to yak about in public.

My bowels let me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn’t get crapping soon, my day would be getting even crappier.

Finally my anger reached a point that overcame Shamefulness. I no longer cared. I gripped the toilet paper holder with one hand, braced my other hand against the side of the stall, and pushed with all my might. I was rewarded with a fart of colossal magnitude – a cross between the sound of someone ripping a very wet bed sheet in half and of plywood being torn off a wall. The sound gradually transitioned into a heavily modulated low-RPM tone, not unlike someone firing up a Harley. I managed to hit the resonance frequency of the stall, and it shook gently.

Once my ass cheeks stopped flapping in the breeze, three things became apparent:

(1) The next-door conversation had ceased

(2) my colon’s continued seizing indicated that there was more to come

(3) the bathroom was now beset by a horrible, eldritch stench. It was as if a gateway to Hell had been opened. The foul miasma quickly made its way under the stall and began choking my poop-mate. This initial “herald” fart had ended his conversation in mid-sentence.

“Oh my God,” I heard him utter, following it with suppressed sounds of choking, and then, “No, baby, that wasn’t me (cough, gag), you could hear that (gag)??”

Now there was no stopping me. I pushed for all I was worth. I could swear that in the resulting cacophony of rips, squirts, splashes, poots, and blasts, I was actually lifted slightly off the pot. The amount of stuff in me was incredible. It sprayed against the bowl with tremendous force. Later, in surveying the damage, I’d see that liquid poop had actually managed to ricochet out of the bowl and run down the side on to the floor. But for now, all I could do was hang on for the ride.

Next door I could hear him fumbling with the paper dispenser as he desperately tried to finish his task. Little snatches of conversation made themselves heard over my anal symphony: “Gotta go… horrible… throw up…in my mouth… not… make it… tell the kids… love them… oh God…” followed by more sounds of suppressed gagging and retching.

Alas, it is evidently difficult to hold one’s phone and wipe one’s bum at the same time. Just as my high-pressure abuse of the toilet was winding down, I heard a plop and splash from next door, followed by string of swear words and gags. My poop-mate had dropped his phone into the toilet.

There was a lull in my production, and the restroom became deathly quiet. I could envision him standing there, wondering what to do. A final anal announcement came trumpeting from my behind, small chunks plopping noisily into the water. That must have been the last straw. I heard a flush, a fumbling with the lock, and then the stall door was thrown open. I heard him running out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

After a considerable amount of paperwork, I got up and surveyed the damage. I felt bad for the janitor who’d be forced to deal with this, but I knew that flushing was not an option. No toilet in the world could handle that unholy mess. Flushing would only lead to a floor flooded with filth.

As I left, I glanced into the next-door stall. Nothing remained in the bowl. Had he flushed his phone, or had he plucked it out and left the bathroom with nasty unwashed hands? The world will never know.

I exited the bathroom, momentarily proud and Shameless, looking around for a face glaring at me. But I saw no one. I suspect that somehow my supernatural elimination has managed to transfer my Shamefulness to my anonymous poop-mate. I think it’ll be a long time before he can bring himself to poop in public — and I doubt he’ll ever again answer his cell phone in the loo.

And this, my friends, is why you should never talk on your phone in the bathroom.