It was fifty-five years ago, but I still have clear high school memories of borrowing my parents' Plymouth Fury (that was back when Detroit really knew how to build "lemons") and just going for a drive. The very definition of freedom for a teenager in 1968.
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My family had a white Fury III. When I took it out my friends called it the FFIII (F*cking Fury III). Guzzled gas but could not be killed.
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