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> "One liter of raw power, 3 cylinders of asphalt-tearing terror on
> thirteen-inch rims. It's stock, alright, nothing done to it, but it
> pushes
> the barely 2000 pounds of Metro around with AUTHORITY. I'm always
> catching
> mopeds and 18-wheelers by surprise...
> I was headed back from Baskin Robbins with my manly triple-latte
> cappuccino
> blast ("No cinnamon, ma'am, I take it BLACK"), when I stopped at a
> streetlight. As the Metro throbbed its throaty idle around me, I
> sipped my
> bold beverage and wiped the white froth off my stiff upper lip. I was
> minding my own business, but then I heard a rev from the next lane.
>
> I turned, made eye contact, then let my eyes trace over the
> competition.
> Ford Festiva - a late model, could be trouble. Low profile tires, curb
> feelers, and schoolbus-yellow paint. Yep, a hot rod, for sure.
>
> The howl of his motor snapped my reverie, and I looked back into the
> driver's eyes, nodded, then blipped my own throttle. As I tugged on my
> driving gloves and slipped on my sunglasses (gotta look cool to be
> fast,
> and I am *darn* cool, hence...) the night was split with the sound of
> seven
> screaming cylinders...
>
> Then the light turned... I almost had him out of the hole, my three
> pounding cylinders thrusting me at least a millimeter back into my
> seat, as
> smoke poured from my front right tire... my unlimited slip
> differential was
> letting me down! I saw in the corner of my eyes, a yellow snout
> gaining,
> and I heard the roar of his four cylinders. He slung by me, right front
> wheel juddering against the pavement, and he flashed me a smile as his
> .7
> extra liters of motor stretched its legs. I kept my foot gamely in it,
> though, waiting for the CHECK ENGINE light to blink on in the
> one-gauge (no
> tachometer here!) instrument panel. I saw a glimpse of chrome under his
> bumper, and knew the ugly truth...
>
> He was running a custom exhaust -- probably a 2-into-1 dual exhaust --
> maybe even cutouts! Darn his hot-rod soul! The old lady passing us on
> the
> crosswalk cast a dirty look in our boy-racer direction...
>
> Yet I still persisted, with my three pumping pistons singing a heady
> high-pitched song, wound fully out. Though only a few handfuls of
> seconds
> had passed, we were nearing the crosswalk at the other side of the
> intersection,and I heard the note of his engine change as he made his
> shift
> to second, and I saw his grin in his rearview mirror fade as he missed
> the
> shift! I rocketed by, shifting, and nursed the clutch gently in to
> keep it
> from bogging, keeping my motor spinning hot and pulling me ahead, now
> trailing a cloud of stinking clutch smoke. Not ready to give up so
> easily,
> he left his foot in it, revving, and I heard one wheel *almost* chirp
> as he
> finally found second and dropped the clutch. We careened over the
> crosswalk, now going at least 15 miles per hour. A bicyclist passed
> us, but
> intent on the race as we were, neither of us batted an eye.
>
> He pulled slowly abreast of me, and neck and neck, we made the shift to
> third, the scream of motors deafening all pedestrians within a five
> foot
> radius. He nosed ahead as we passed 30 miles an hour, then eased in
> front
> of me, taunting, as we shifted into fourth. I was staring up the dual
> 6"
> chrome tips of his exhaust, snarling, my cappuccino forgotten, as he
> lifted
> a little to take the next corner.
>
> I saw my opportunity, and counting on the innate agility of my trusty
> steed, I pulled wide into the number two lane and kept my foot buried
> in
> the carpet. Slowly, I inched around him, feeling my Metro roll slowly
> to
> the left as I came abreast in the midst of this gradual sweeping turn.
> I
> felt the Geo ease onto its suspension stops, and felt the right rear
> wheel
> slowly leave the ground - no matter, though, because my drive wheels,
> up
> front, were pulling me through the corner, and around the Festiva.
>
> The Ford driver beat his wheel in rage as my car eased past him on the
> outside, my P165/80R-13's screaming in protest, as we raced to the next
> light. We coasted down, neck and neck, to the red light. I tightened my
> driving gloves, ready for another round, when this WIMP in the next car
> meekly flipped his turn signal and made a right.
>
> I drove off sipping my masculine drink, awash in my sheer virility,
> looking
> for other unwitting targets... Perhaps a Yugo, or maybe even a
> Volkswagen
> Van!"
> thirteen-inch rims. It's stock, alright, nothing done to it, but it
> pushes
> the barely 2000 pounds of Metro around with AUTHORITY. I'm always
> catching
> mopeds and 18-wheelers by surprise...
> I was headed back from Baskin Robbins with my manly triple-latte
> cappuccino
> blast ("No cinnamon, ma'am, I take it BLACK"), when I stopped at a
> streetlight. As the Metro throbbed its throaty idle around me, I
> sipped my
> bold beverage and wiped the white froth off my stiff upper lip. I was
> minding my own business, but then I heard a rev from the next lane.
>
> I turned, made eye contact, then let my eyes trace over the
> competition.
> Ford Festiva - a late model, could be trouble. Low profile tires, curb
> feelers, and schoolbus-yellow paint. Yep, a hot rod, for sure.
>
> The howl of his motor snapped my reverie, and I looked back into the
> driver's eyes, nodded, then blipped my own throttle. As I tugged on my
> driving gloves and slipped on my sunglasses (gotta look cool to be
> fast,
> and I am *darn* cool, hence...) the night was split with the sound of
> seven
> screaming cylinders...
>
> Then the light turned... I almost had him out of the hole, my three
> pounding cylinders thrusting me at least a millimeter back into my
> seat, as
> smoke poured from my front right tire... my unlimited slip
> differential was
> letting me down! I saw in the corner of my eyes, a yellow snout
> gaining,
> and I heard the roar of his four cylinders. He slung by me, right front
> wheel juddering against the pavement, and he flashed me a smile as his
> .7
> extra liters of motor stretched its legs. I kept my foot gamely in it,
> though, waiting for the CHECK ENGINE light to blink on in the
> one-gauge (no
> tachometer here!) instrument panel. I saw a glimpse of chrome under his
> bumper, and knew the ugly truth...
>
> He was running a custom exhaust -- probably a 2-into-1 dual exhaust --
> maybe even cutouts! Darn his hot-rod soul! The old lady passing us on
> the
> crosswalk cast a dirty look in our boy-racer direction...
>
> Yet I still persisted, with my three pumping pistons singing a heady
> high-pitched song, wound fully out. Though only a few handfuls of
> seconds
> had passed, we were nearing the crosswalk at the other side of the
> intersection,and I heard the note of his engine change as he made his
> shift
> to second, and I saw his grin in his rearview mirror fade as he missed
> the
> shift! I rocketed by, shifting, and nursed the clutch gently in to
> keep it
> from bogging, keeping my motor spinning hot and pulling me ahead, now
> trailing a cloud of stinking clutch smoke. Not ready to give up so
> easily,
> he left his foot in it, revving, and I heard one wheel *almost* chirp
> as he
> finally found second and dropped the clutch. We careened over the
> crosswalk, now going at least 15 miles per hour. A bicyclist passed
> us, but
> intent on the race as we were, neither of us batted an eye.
>
> He pulled slowly abreast of me, and neck and neck, we made the shift to
> third, the scream of motors deafening all pedestrians within a five
> foot
> radius. He nosed ahead as we passed 30 miles an hour, then eased in
> front
> of me, taunting, as we shifted into fourth. I was staring up the dual
> 6"
> chrome tips of his exhaust, snarling, my cappuccino forgotten, as he
> lifted
> a little to take the next corner.
>
> I saw my opportunity, and counting on the innate agility of my trusty
> steed, I pulled wide into the number two lane and kept my foot buried
> in
> the carpet. Slowly, I inched around him, feeling my Metro roll slowly
> to
> the left as I came abreast in the midst of this gradual sweeping turn.
> I
> felt the Geo ease onto its suspension stops, and felt the right rear
> wheel
> slowly leave the ground - no matter, though, because my drive wheels,
> up
> front, were pulling me through the corner, and around the Festiva.
>
> The Ford driver beat his wheel in rage as my car eased past him on the
> outside, my P165/80R-13's screaming in protest, as we raced to the next
> light. We coasted down, neck and neck, to the red light. I tightened my
> driving gloves, ready for another round, when this WIMP in the next car
> meekly flipped his turn signal and made a right.
>
> I drove off sipping my masculine drink, awash in my sheer virility,
> looking
> for other unwitting targets... Perhaps a Yugo, or maybe even a
> Volkswagen
> Van!"
That is the funniest thing I've read all year! Excellent!!!
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