forcedfedv6
Banned
- Joined
- Jan 6, 2008
This race was between a Supra and a Dodge Challanger. LOL
Girls have bumper stickers on their trucks suggesting they would “rather be riding their cowboy”, cowboys have bull testicules on their hitch. So what would a cowboy “rather be riding”? If Bud Davis never met the mechanical bull in Gilley’s would he have rather been riding Sissy? I would have to say no. A cowboy drives a Dodge! He drives a truck to work and to the Cracker Barrel and cruises in a Challenger on Sunday with his son.
So what the Fu*k does all this mean…?
On Sunday I got see what the new Challenger R/T is packing, beyond its 4000~ lb curb weight and its sub 400~ hp Hemi.
For those that have fly like attention spans the first paragraph was forced on you like running the mile in gym class, so let me, let you, continue on with your life. I won. For those that are as bored as I am, and can stand to read through pre pubescent grammar, terrible punctuation, and some of the longest run on sentences ever recorded by man, enjoy the ride from my back seat.
Deductive reasoning allows you to perceive the day is Sunday, time is unimportant. The participants are a father son duo, and I. Cars respectively are a ~2009 Dodge Charger R/T and a 1989 Toyota Cressida. Location is a red light somewhere on the streets of Pinellas County.
Sunday’s are a perfect day to drive any car. Everyone is pissed off that tomorrow they have to work, but somehow on sunny Sunday, you feel alone on the street. So much so that you suppress your hatred of the routine we call life, and relax, perhaps even live a little. I know one Sunday I will take my son out on a drive. Maybe buy him an ice cream and joke as we hold our sun hats securely with our only other free hand as we are guided into the land of make believe. Truth be told if he spills a drop, and I mean a drop of that ice cream anywhere on my upholstery he will be cleaning that $hit right up, so some advice my boy if you read this. Finish that ice cream before you get in the car or Phuck the hat, and hold fast to that cone. Anyways, I am sure that was just what the gentlemen next to me was planning on doing until he ran into me, alone; in an import car with a loud annoying exhaust, hood pins, securely holding a hood that weighs so much it won’t open in a tornado.
Let me preface everything else with the following. I really don’t like to “engage”, that’s what we will call it since you should never “race” with a child in the car, in an automotive dance battle at stop lights, but sometimes. Well its gotta be Sunday 1 out of 7 days, right?
The father, whom I will now call, the cowboy, looked over at me, alone, in his polarized sun glasses, which deflect nail gun nails Monday – Friday, and burn with X-men like powers through the hearts of any good country woman. I must have appeared helpless. His car growled at me. Large and black it took on the form of a massive Orca whale. Was I just a seal pup or maybe a trainer at seaworld to be toyed with? Like other large mammals, Orca’s train their young by example. Clearly this was a daddy whale and baby whale. Surely, daddy was going to teach his offspring how to stomp on the weak.
I snapped out of it, this is reality; it’s just a cowboy and his cowkid, nothing more. I couldn’t give in. I had to shake it off. But the call got louder. VrooOOOm VrOooOOM. The cowboy grinned, never eclipsing any teeth, while the child barely could stay seated in anticipation. What do I do!!! Clearly the light was going to change at any minute based on the boy’s jubilation. I had to. Fight or Flight, and both require me to go down the road.
I drop the car in 1st, and start building RPM’s, Cowboy’s grin turned into laughter as his right arm moved ape like to tap his child on the chest. Diane Fossey once told me that’s ape for “watch this $hit”. Cowboy prepared for launch, the child, turned into a statue, clearly he has been in this position before, arms locked at his side. He resembles what I pictured myself to look like the first time I had to $hit on an airplane, as I thought I might get sucked out. To say no more, he was ready.
GREEN!
We were off…
Well I was off a little better then he was. I pushed forward to second gear, head forward, tucked for aerodynamics. Third gear, where was he…? I struggled with the g-forces to check my rear view mirror. There he was
…but…
He was pretty far back… I decided to shut down. Shacking from the adrenaline I wiped the sweat off my brow. I had survived the attack… Then it happened.
Head out the window, middle finger waving, and polarized sunglass standing their ground was cowboy whizzing past me. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but his gestures led me to believe he was not happy.
Was he a sore loser? Was he offended that I “engaged” him with his son in the car? Or did he teach his son a valuable lesson, like large mammals do? I suppose a lesson was learned, if you can’t win, act scary, scream nonsensical things, and flail appendages at the real winner. Well cowboy, your arm and finger were all the checker flag I needed to chalk another W on the Pinellas County “engage” circuit.
Girls have bumper stickers on their trucks suggesting they would “rather be riding their cowboy”, cowboys have bull testicules on their hitch. So what would a cowboy “rather be riding”? If Bud Davis never met the mechanical bull in Gilley’s would he have rather been riding Sissy? I would have to say no. A cowboy drives a Dodge! He drives a truck to work and to the Cracker Barrel and cruises in a Challenger on Sunday with his son.
So what the Fu*k does all this mean…?
On Sunday I got see what the new Challenger R/T is packing, beyond its 4000~ lb curb weight and its sub 400~ hp Hemi.
For those that have fly like attention spans the first paragraph was forced on you like running the mile in gym class, so let me, let you, continue on with your life. I won. For those that are as bored as I am, and can stand to read through pre pubescent grammar, terrible punctuation, and some of the longest run on sentences ever recorded by man, enjoy the ride from my back seat.
Deductive reasoning allows you to perceive the day is Sunday, time is unimportant. The participants are a father son duo, and I. Cars respectively are a ~2009 Dodge Charger R/T and a 1989 Toyota Cressida. Location is a red light somewhere on the streets of Pinellas County.
Sunday’s are a perfect day to drive any car. Everyone is pissed off that tomorrow they have to work, but somehow on sunny Sunday, you feel alone on the street. So much so that you suppress your hatred of the routine we call life, and relax, perhaps even live a little. I know one Sunday I will take my son out on a drive. Maybe buy him an ice cream and joke as we hold our sun hats securely with our only other free hand as we are guided into the land of make believe. Truth be told if he spills a drop, and I mean a drop of that ice cream anywhere on my upholstery he will be cleaning that $hit right up, so some advice my boy if you read this. Finish that ice cream before you get in the car or Phuck the hat, and hold fast to that cone. Anyways, I am sure that was just what the gentlemen next to me was planning on doing until he ran into me, alone; in an import car with a loud annoying exhaust, hood pins, securely holding a hood that weighs so much it won’t open in a tornado.
Let me preface everything else with the following. I really don’t like to “engage”, that’s what we will call it since you should never “race” with a child in the car, in an automotive dance battle at stop lights, but sometimes. Well its gotta be Sunday 1 out of 7 days, right?
The father, whom I will now call, the cowboy, looked over at me, alone, in his polarized sun glasses, which deflect nail gun nails Monday – Friday, and burn with X-men like powers through the hearts of any good country woman. I must have appeared helpless. His car growled at me. Large and black it took on the form of a massive Orca whale. Was I just a seal pup or maybe a trainer at seaworld to be toyed with? Like other large mammals, Orca’s train their young by example. Clearly this was a daddy whale and baby whale. Surely, daddy was going to teach his offspring how to stomp on the weak.
I snapped out of it, this is reality; it’s just a cowboy and his cowkid, nothing more. I couldn’t give in. I had to shake it off. But the call got louder. VrooOOOm VrOooOOM. The cowboy grinned, never eclipsing any teeth, while the child barely could stay seated in anticipation. What do I do!!! Clearly the light was going to change at any minute based on the boy’s jubilation. I had to. Fight or Flight, and both require me to go down the road.
I drop the car in 1st, and start building RPM’s, Cowboy’s grin turned into laughter as his right arm moved ape like to tap his child on the chest. Diane Fossey once told me that’s ape for “watch this $hit”. Cowboy prepared for launch, the child, turned into a statue, clearly he has been in this position before, arms locked at his side. He resembles what I pictured myself to look like the first time I had to $hit on an airplane, as I thought I might get sucked out. To say no more, he was ready.
GREEN!
We were off…
Well I was off a little better then he was. I pushed forward to second gear, head forward, tucked for aerodynamics. Third gear, where was he…? I struggled with the g-forces to check my rear view mirror. There he was
…but…
He was pretty far back… I decided to shut down. Shacking from the adrenaline I wiped the sweat off my brow. I had survived the attack… Then it happened.
Head out the window, middle finger waving, and polarized sunglass standing their ground was cowboy whizzing past me. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but his gestures led me to believe he was not happy.
Was he a sore loser? Was he offended that I “engaged” him with his son in the car? Or did he teach his son a valuable lesson, like large mammals do? I suppose a lesson was learned, if you can’t win, act scary, scream nonsensical things, and flail appendages at the real winner. Well cowboy, your arm and finger were all the checker flag I needed to chalk another W on the Pinellas County “engage” circuit.
