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.
Then you must be looking for an all-American, muscle car that has the name "manliness" all over it. This car should be able to turn heads, attract the girls, and make the bad guys whine. Well, it's as if this could be a scene from an 80s macho film, right?
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