Every now and again, I am confronted by an ambulatory pile of testosterone that has only one thing on its rudimentary brain - cars, cars, cars, and more importantly, the babes that wear almost nothing while posing on the CARS. Sooner or later, the synapse will fire, and it will ask me the question, "So, if you could have any muscle car in the world, what would you pick?"
Well.
The majority of you Blogstream readers/writers know me by now. And what you know is that there's never a simple or predictable answer that will EVER come out of my mouth. However, I will give you - my faithful readers - this tidbit: I really love my car.
From the outside, it appears as a mundane Toyota Corolla. It is painted a very weird hue of "ugly burgundy." The chassis looks like my car has stared a thousand errant shopping cars in their ball-bearing eyes, and then plowed right through their godless masses. The rear bumper is plastered in bumper stickers that read anywhere from "Don't laugh, I could be dating your daughter," to "All I learned I got from reading banned books," to "It's all fun and games until they look in the trunk." These bumper stickers spread outward, to where they will eventually cover the hood. Even my gas panel has "Ling-Ling here to destroy you ALL!"
I point out my lovely car to the stubble-strewn hot-rod-girl-chaser, and he looks at me like he's only just realized I've lost my mind. "That's your dream car?!" he says incredulously, even though he could never pronounce or spell the word.
"Why yes," I say, "For starters, let's look at the steering wheel. You'll notice a severe lack of cruise control. This is because cruise control is only for those who have the inherent need to drive the speed limit. If you'll look towards the stick-shift, you'll also see that I have the Overdrive option installed, which allows this 4-In-Line cylinder engine to perform like a V-6. If you think I won't be able to pull out in front of you fast enough, guess again."
Here's where I open the car doors and usher the bamboozled goatee-faced bar skank into the car. "Here is where you'll notice that, under the pretense of this being a normal car - we have installed a titanium roller-bar system. The car stereo - that's just a front. Remove the front panel, and as you can clearly see, we have the control panel that enables me quick access to a wide variety of vehicular features. That button - FMA - 'Forward Machinegun Array.' There's also a few extra buttons that don't really do anything."
The Abercrombie & Fitch whore grins knowingly as he points to a particular button. "You have a button here called 'Sex.'"
I look at the button and then at him. "Yeah. There's this crazy werechick that has decided I'm her new play-toy-meat-puppet, and she demanded that I put that button in there, or else she would annex my balls. As a man, it is definitely not in your best interests that you touch that button. She does ride shotgun."
In a vulgar display, the sports-and-auto-junkie rubs his crotch, "Ha ha! She'll be riding MY shotgun pretty soon. Wait. Did you say that she WAS a chick?"
"What?"
"You said she were a chick. Did she get a sex-change?"
I stare at him. "No, no she didn't. Here, when I introduce you to her, hold this sign." (I pass him a cardboard sign I normally reserve for frank opinions of other motorists that says 'Eat Me.')
As predicted, the over-active glands between his legs translated these two words for his brain. "Whoa! Thanks little guy! She's goin' down on me tonight!"
Scratch one jock.
But the tour is not over. "Okay, now, if you'll just go down the stairs...."
"The STAIRS?!"
"Yes, the stairs, into the lower level of the car, you'll find the bathroom complete with shower. To the right is the bedroom, complete with seven LCD screens, and a 23.5 surround sound system. If you'll just look to your left, in there is the kitchen - yes, with full running water."
I quickly hustled him towards the kitchen, as "my" werechick's tail was sticking out from under the sheets haphazardly tossed on the bed. Her cold black nose poked out from the covers, and I swear I could see her eyes glowing yellow under there. I pointed hastily at the cardboard sign that the beer-stained-backwards-cap-car-mechanic-wannabe was holding.
"Is that a tank shell in your 'fridge?"
"Yeah, you don't want to let that thing get too warm. Experimental, you know. Beer?"
I keep a small stash of mass-produced bug-piss just in case of pierced-nose-racecar-fans. What they don't know is that they are all filled with LSD and Ecstasy.
To make an already long story shorter, the jock was given the whole tour, even to the classified areas of the car. You know, the parts that only I and the 6'5" female who routinely alternately rubs my face against her fuzzy chest and threatens my life know about. By now, the jock has consumed three cans of 25% LSD, 25% Ecstasy, and 50% bad beer.
This is the point where I bring him back to the shower. Whereupon the Abercrombie bitch promptly exclaims, "WHOA!!! Are you digging this TILE? That's just AMAZING. Why are we here? Is it because I didn't get to see the TILE?"
"That, plus this is the only part of my car that has a drain." I point down to the drain in the floor. The guy slowly looks down at the drain in the tile floor, "WHOA!!! It's....like.....sucking my FACE INTO THE FLOOR!!!"
At which point, I exit. I grab a cold-cut sandwich from the fridge and head back into my apartment. As I am writing this, my car is shaking in the parking lot, like it alone is the subject of a massive earthquake that nobody else is feeling. I have discovered that this werechick (who shall remain nameless because of her own preferences) has several fetishes that "get her off." One is being tied down, and the other is tearing somebody to shreds.
Right now, I'm sitting on my massive beanbag chair, with a fuzz-ball on top of me that is covered from her pointy ears to her toes in hot human blood, and is absolutely relentless in describing me after eating meat soaked with drugs. Something about how she can't get over how "squishy" I am. I stopped paying attention after she saw an arm coming out of my forehead.
It's a good thing my keyboard is water-proof.
As I said before, I absolutely love my car. MINE'S A 99.
The Buggles - The Age Of Plastic - Video Killed The Radio Star
7
this is radio clash on pirate satellite
