Friday, February 19, 2010
Soup. It. Up.
When I was a mere scamp back in the early-to-late 1900's, I remember dreaming of the day that I could drive a car. Legally.
My dream car was not just any car, but a souped-up chick magnet that would frighten children, old people, and especially the parents of teenage girls. This ride would be an American-made, TADE-approved, steel stallion with an ear-bleed stereo and that would play heavy metal 42% of the time, Skynyrd 64% of the time, and second-base-facilitating rock ballads the other 87% of the time. The ballads would only play when I was in the company of a lady friend, and we'd be totally making out. Obviously.
60% of the time, it would work every time.
My souped-up mullet machine would have an engine that averaged 6 mpg, and provide me the horses I would need to light up the rear tires in a white cloud of smoke rivaled only by the one coming out of the driver's side window.
This rolling piece of rebellion would also have a radar detector that would give me free automotive reign on the streets of your town. But more importantly, it would reinforce my anti-authority attitude. There would be no better way for me to give John Q. Law the middle finger – except perhaps my actual middle finger, which I would also utilize.
This mag-wheeled beast and the music blaring from it would speak for itself, but there may be a place for a bumper sticker – as long as it was classy and spoke to my disposition. Something like "I rule, you drool" or "How's my driving? Call 1-800-EAT-SHIT" or "I Heart Kitty Cats."
As you can see in the pic above, I was able to realize my dream.