Once while drinking, I met a used car salesman. He was good company. We talked. A leggy blonde walked past, and he said that he wouldn’t approach her because she looked “TMU.” I asked him what that meant. He told me to come across the street and he’d show me.

At the dealership, he showed me a beautiful car, recited a litany of its features, and said it was TMU. He tossed me the keys, but the car wouldn’t start. He explained: even though the car looked amazing and fun, the odometer had broken long ago and the car’s true mileage was unknown. Later, he tried to sell me a different car.