It is not nice to tell your 1982 on it’s last leg Ford pickup that you f’n hate it’s guts, because it decides to quit the next time you get in it.
Absolutely not a good idea. When I was a Kid I had a Plymouth Fury III. That thing was alive, I swear it. If I made a “bat maneuver” it would punish me by turning off the radio. If I apologized and petted the dash, the radio would come back on. It had many cantankerous moments, but always responded if I simply spoke to it lovingly. I miss that thing.
Yeah, especially if it’s name is Christine.