#ramcharger

[dodge-ramcharger]

[radracer]

1977 Plymouth Trail Duster Top Hand

[lamorahotwheels]

Polara '62

[simplecountryboy]

[acarefullycuratedmess]

[leaves-and-spines]

Vintage Dodge Ramcharger Magazine Advertisement

[meatloaf2maker]

Ramcharger

[usnewsper-business]

Introducing the RAM Charger: The Powerful and Efficient Hybrid Alternative for Improved Performance! #electricandgasolinepower #hybridalternative #improvedperformanceandefficiency #RAM1500 #RAMCharger

[carsthatnevermadeitetc]

Plymouth Trail Duster Sport, 1980. The only SUV to carry the Plymouth marque was a badge-engineered version of the Dodge Ramcharger but unlike its sibling the Trail Duster only lasted one generation, from 1974 to 1981

[stone-cold-groove]

Remember when you used to play with trucks? You still can. Dodge trucks and vans ad - 1977.

[dodge-ramcharger]

[radracer]

1978 Dodge Ramcharger Top Hand

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1977 Dodge Ramcharger

[rollerman1]

[seat-safety-switch]

In another, lesser, life, I worked closely with some esteemed physicists. Yes, you guessed it: at the Space Institute. Founded by Colonel Eastman Space back in 1867, his goal was to get humanity on the moon so they could figure out just what the moon's deal was. He didn't live to see what it is today. In fact, I think he would be sickened, seeing all those degenerate astronaut types thoughtlessly ripping savage doughnuts on the surface of our planet's most precious satellite.

I don't know for sure, though. He died long before I myself reached the Institute. Long before I was even in high school, really. He popped off shortly after founding, from what his Wikipedia article thinks is either opium, mercury, or opium-laced mercury poisoning. Really puts a damper on the end of the "personal life" section, I'll tell you that much. What he did leave behind was a group of the finest nerds that had ever been assembled, and in the modern day they've passed that torch to even finer nerds, like when you buy Corn Flakes and the bottom of the bag is just a thick layer of weird powder that doesn't taste good.

Back then, I was really good at science. And by "science" I mean research. And by "research" I mean that I was the only theoretical physicist on the floor who wouldn't fall asleep trying to source replacement thrust washers for our Moonometer machine, which I was told was very important to studying the moon. I was told further that the Grainger catalogue is extremely boring to most mortals, and even though it wouldn't get me first-author on any of their papers, the fine work of the Institute could not be accomplished without my ceaseless toil, so I should not even consider doing anything else than playing Dr. Gofer for their every whim.

Far be it for me to stand in the way of progress, I figured, unless that progress involved creating any machine that speaks in a human voice. I laboured, bargained, sourced, and fixed all the other physicists' garbage, while they went to all the cool lunchtime meetings at O'Drunkohan's without me. Nobody got to hear my wild theories about why early American-Americans believed the moon was made of cheese. In the end, it turns out that I had been effectively demoted, quite unfairly, to a mere lab tech.

Joke's on them, though. I kept all the keys to the parts locker, and the number to their Grainger account. I'm sure someone has wondered occasionally why they still keep getting lab supplies even though I drove my Ramcharger through the office of Dr. Ostero as part of my resignation letter (the exclamation point part, to be exact.) Investigating exactly why, and determining just how many hundreds of thousands of dollars of scanning electron microscopes have been redirected into my garage, would require a practical physicist. Ain't nobody wants to touch that shit.