Since this is World Cup month we have to decided to focus on something a little different. USA is playing Italy today. So that means the typical thing. Turtle hides till it is over cause he can't watch, then either is happy or pissed the rest of the day while Michele types up tons of material just waiting to the end to call turtle. It's just the way it is and have come to terms with it. But, in the meantime, we thought we would do something fun. We have decided to do something Italian. Not like have sex with an Italian or anything like that, althought it's always on your shelled swimmer's mind, but talk about their cars.

Well, I don't know how much of the game I'm going to actually see either, because my son's baseball team is playing in their league's championship game today. Damn it all. Well yea, I'm happy they are in the game but I want to see USA play, too. Would it be rude if I brought one of those hand held tvs to the game? Hey, don't laugh. I once listened to a Yankees World Series game on my Walkman during an REM concert. And dude, the Yankees lost and it was still better than sitting through that. But that's all off topic. We're here to talk shit about Italians.

See, I can make fun of Italians because I am one. That’s the way it works, right? Good. Then let’s do this.

Ever date an Italian guy? I mean a real Italian guy, the kind who slicks his hair back and wears muscle shirts and an Italian horn on a gold chain around his neck, which chain sometimes gets caught in all that chest hair? The kind who says “fuggedaboutit” or talks like Rocky Balboa searching for (Yo) Adrienne? These guys are all slick and wily and there’s just something about them that says “Hey, trust me. No, don’t trust me. Don’t get in this car with me. Cause while I may tell you that you’re beautiful and I only have eyes for you, all I really want is to cop a feel of those titties and see where it takes us.” You get in the car anyhow, hoping against hope that it will be a good date, but it turns out the guy can’t hold a conversation above third grade level and his mind tends to wander even then. All style, no substance. Kinda like the Lamborghini.

What? I’m gonna bag on the Lamborghini? Damn straight. Ok, here’s the thing. I don’t really care for Italian guys. They aren’t the kind of guy that turns my head. I like mine with blonde hair and blue eyes and a vocabulary that stretches beyond the boundaries of one or two syllable words. And some tattoos. And not tattoos that say “Italian Stallion” or “ragazzo dei momma.” Same with cars. I don’t care for the Lamborghini. Too much....something. Just too much of everything maybe. I like my cars fast, yea. But I like them to look tough, too. Not like some automotive equivalent of a guido. The way the hood slopes down in the front makes the headlights look almost menacing, as if the car is saying “Hey, trust me. No, don’t trust me.” Really, if you look real hard at it, it looks like a car that just wants to get in your pants. Like you’d get behind the wheel and drive it and think meh, this car is a sloppy kisser who can’t fulfill my needs. Never mind that it looks all put together nice and is all sleek and shit, it’s just not what I’m looking for. I mean, look at the back end. Come on, is that necessary? It looks like a fucking jet pack or something, like the car is trying to make you think it can lift off and fly you away somewhere nice. When all it really wants to do is entrap you inside and feed off your soul. What? Have you never seen the Lamborghini Diablo?

Give me a good American sports car over this any day. Like a Mustang. A Mustang tells you what it is right from the start. It looks at you and says “Hey, I wanna be your friend. Let’s go for a ride, play some tunes, drive real fast and just have fun together. What happens after that, happens. But we’re gonna have some fun together.” It’s not trying to get up your shirt or down your pants. It’s not making evil eyes at you. And it doesn’t have more back hair than Magilla Gorilla.

What I’m trying to say here is..umm...go USA! Yea. - M

Oko. I'm gonna be the first to say I only know one Italian that talks like what she described above. Hey dude. I'm not from New York. I've never seen Saturday Night Fever. When that movie came out I was still figuring out what this outtie was on my skin. Why didn't they have them. Those girls over there. Why didn't they have them.

Show and tell was a little different for me. Oh yeah. I was a playa in third grade. Don't hate the player, man. Hate the game.

Hey, she said blond hair? Didn't she? Up there? Didn't she? Blue eyes? Tattoos? Michele? Are you talking about me? All you have to do is add in a rabid love of "24" and you got me nailed.

Anyways, I'm just gonna keep going til I figure this one out and think about getting Nachos for dinner. See. Right there. You can tell I'm from California. I'm not used to this 100% Italian shit. We are all mutts here.

We broke a frontier and fucked anyone and everyone. Hey dude. If it's walking and breathing, we could give a flying fuck about where the fuck their father or grandfather was from. Only if it has tits and a smile and spread its legs. But that's Califonia. How do you think the Bay Bridge was built? Sex. It was all built on sex. Just one wild sex farm building an entire state. We like sex. That's why I love California. And I'll sink with it when it falls into the seeeeeeaaaaaaaaa.

*See how I tossed in a punk rock reference there? I can do that. Cause I'm the mayor.

But I digress.

Jeez, Im all horny now thinking about Charles getting some on Little House while screaming "How can I cum! Laura's blind! How can I cum?!?!" Hey dude. My mind works like that. Frontier sex and blindness. Don't ask me were it comes from and don't ask me to write just after I woke up either or you will hear a little story about Mary getting in to make it a threesome. That's just the way it works.

Ok. Sorry about that. Let's get back on to the car.

That's it. Maserati 3500GT Spyder. That car meant you were rich as fuck. That car was success and stupidity all rolled into one "I make alot of money" joint and smoked in public. A car that you would see in LA and just think...producer, director, actor, or rap star. These cars meant you had cash coming out your ass. Those were the type of people who drove these things. These were the cars that attracted the snooty uphand citizens of society. Nothing made me hate these cars more. Arrogant assholes. These meant you had so much money, you could blow it on a car like this while I was shoplifting ding-dongs and cigarettes. Damn you. Nothing cou.....wait.....hold on.....wait!

Ted Nugent drove one!

The Nuge!I They must be cool!! He killed things with his bare hands!! His bare god damn hands! The Nuge!

Ok.

Then these cars must be cool. Cause hey dude. If Nuge would drive it. It is cool. Cause he is a cool guy. And cool guys drive cool cars.

Plus he kills things with his bare hands. -T

New Bomb Turks -Tattooed Apathetic Boys
Ted Nugent - Wango Tango
Youth Brigade - Sink With California

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