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Baby You're Much 2 Fast

In honor of FTTW Car Week and in response to you all who keep asking where the cool car stuff has gone, here's one from back in the day.

Michele disses the vette:

We keep getting asked “When are you gonna do the ‘Vette?” “How can you do all these great cars and not get to the Corvette yet?” Well honestly, guys, I’ve been putting it off because truth be told, I just don’t feel about this car the way most of you do. The majority of car freaks look at this thing and think speed, sex, coolness. Me, I look at and think....old man’s car.

Yea, dude. Old man’s car. See, I’ve never know anyone with a Corvette who wasn’t in the middle of some wild mid-life crisis that involved silk shirts, 18 year old call girls and a Corvette.

Oh, there was a time when I thought it was a really cool car. But that was a long time ago, mid 70's I guess. And then one day my father said that an old friend of his was coming over to visit and he had a ‘vette. A ‘69 Stingray to be exact. Oh yea. This was gonna be cool. He might even take us for a ride, dad said. So I spent all day imaging what kind of “old friend” was gonna show up with this car. Maybe someone from my dad’s old days hanging at the biker bar, a guy with a leather jacket and slicked back hair who said “fuck” a lot. Hey, when you’re 13 years old, it’s hard to conjure up an image of a cool guy your dad’s age. I was trying my hardest.

So late in the afternoon, the guy rolls up in this pure white Stingray. Now, I had never seen one of these up close, but in my confined little world, Stingrays were known to be cool. Right? Then why did I feel almost disappointed when I got my first glance at this car? It seemed so....feminine. Like someone offering you a cigarette and you expect a Lucky Strikes No Filter but you get a Virginia Slims 100 Menthol instead.

As if that disappointment wasn’t enough, dad’s friend stepped out of the car. It was like someone stuck a pin in a balloon. All I could hear was this hissing sound as the air was sucked out of my dream of tooling around the neighborhood in a cool car with some aging, yet cool, greaser.

The guy was about 6'9". It was like he unfolded himself when he stepped out of the car. He had a mess of dirty blonde curls for hair, and I knew without even getting close to him that those curls came from a perm. Yea, this guy sat in a beauty salon with fucking curlers in his hair. He was wearing a tan button down shirt, first three buttons undone, chest hair springing out between the gold chains hanging down around his neck. He had on brown, flared pants with a belt so tight that his huge beer gut hung down over his pants like a water balloon about to burst. Jesusfuckingchristonapogostick. I felt sick.

And that was just the beginning. I started to notice it after that. I looked for Corvettes on the road. I scoped them out in parking lots. And every single one of them belonged to some gut-heavy man in a seersucker suit and a toupee. The kind of guy who would leer and wink at a 14 year old girl. The kind of guy who thought that buying a sports car was like buying a time machine and all he had to do was start the engine and he was 18 all over again. Fuck, dude. I’m betting that beer belly and that bald spot weren’t there when you graduated high school.

So I started to associate Corvettes with old, lecherous men who probably masturbated to passing school buses. Dude, look at that picture. Look at who is admiring the car. Notice the beer gut? And one guy is wearing fanny pack? See what I mean?

And really. That is one feminine looking car. Totally a Virginia Slim. I like my cars non-filtered, thanks. -M

Turtle gets all CHiPS on your ass:

The Corvette.

Hmmmm.

This will not end well.....

Pick any year, any make, any size. It doesn't really matter to me. It's always gonna bring up the same memories for me. Something out of CHiPs where Erik Estrada is taking off his shirt to pull the cool "crazy kids" over or some bad pre-teen nightmare about a car that looks like a bad acid trip. Or Erik Estrada and Farrah Fawcett fucking on a beach. Her legs spread in the air. Him waving to the little boys saying "Don't go anywhere 'cause you are next."

The Corvette. Don't ask me about these cars 'cause all the memories I have of them are 70's TV shows, Eric Estrada without a shirt from some fucked up poster my friend had on his wall that he used to throw darts at. A garage of my father's friends house we used to break our knuckles in trying to punch through the sheetrock when we were bored.

Hmmm....

This is already sounding like I was molested as a kid.....

I'm not gay, ok? But I do have alot of broken knuckles.

But thats a story for another time.

We stole this car one time from my friend's dad. Jacked the keys and got that fucker in gear. The smelI of the fumes made us sick as we tried to open the garage door.

I told you this story was going down fast. Geez, that even sounds gay.....I just can't seem to win today...

I think I was about 12. He didn't know how to drive a stick and we spent the whole night drinking and grinding gears. God, that sounds gay. I need to stop watching so much soccer before I write. Too much damn hugging in soccer. I'm telling you, this site is turning weirder everyday. Reel it in turtle...reel it in....pull it back...pull it back...

But anyways, let's get back to the car. I'm not here to bag on it, but it was so...so...70's. I mean, fuck. Most of the cars I do are 70's car so the time frame was right. But this one, this one was so hmmmmm.... I think they got the motive and the body style from some designer's bad mescaline trip. This didn't look like power. This looked like the ocean on a happy day. Something someone designed while watching PBS specials and wondering if he should donate money on the next sponsorship drive.

Hey dude. The car might have had power but it just looks so...hmm...like Mr. Rogers with a hangover asking about The Land of Make Believe while shooting back a Corona. Asking why the Land is in fucking Mexico and why he had no fucking pants on. Why King Friday kept asking him if he was gonna finish that beer and why the god damn owl wouldn't stop flying around his head. I mean the fucking owl never leaves that god damn tree, so why the fuck would he pick today to do it?

"Fuck. I have no pants. Doesn't that god damn owl know today is "Mr. Rogers Gets High In Mexico" day? Jesus. I read the fucking schedule...Can't that god damn owl show me some respect and do the same god damn thing? What the fuck is wrong with him? And fuck you King Friday or Tuesday or whatever the fuck your name is today. That's my beer. Wait. I have an idea. Hold on. Hold on. You need a new name. Why don't we just call you.... "King Shutthefuckupday" and drink a few more shots while you find where the donkey act is tonight. OK? Cause this bottle can still break your little plastic head and spill your little plastic brains all over the god damn table, King Fuck. Wait. OK. That's funny.That's your new name. KING FUCK! All hail King Fuck! Finder of the Holy Donkey Act! And grab me another god damn beer while you finding it, King Fuck. And get this god damn owl outta my fucking hair!"

Just confusion. And cool red sweaters. And owls on LSD.

Cool car but just confusion.

Like a Ford GEO. Something that would only take a few people and leave the rest behind wondering what that was.

GEO...do it like a GEO...suddenly I want to hear The Geto Boys.

Car Archives

And if you don't already, please support you local Public Broadcasting channel. Because without viewers like you, the hosts can't get high. -T

Adventures of the Banana Boat

Paul usually deals with all things sci-fi for his FTTW column Out of the Basement but we've let him up for some fresh air to tell us the story of the Banana Boat.

Chapter 1: Just Like a Traffic Cone

We were walking down the road one day and spotted an old yellow ’68 Plymouth Fury parked out in front of a house. It had a “For Sale” sign in the window. My friend Mike took a closer look at it and said we should ask the guy how much he wanted for the car. What the hell? Why not?

We talked to the guy for a few minutes and asked him about the price. “If you can get it out of here, you can have it.”

Mike and I looked at each other and nodded. We got the keys, walked out to the car and spent 20 minutes looking it over and just sitting in it. We were really just happy to have something that didn’t belong to our parents. This belonged to us. This is something we could call our own. This represented our liberation from walking and bicycles and hitching rides with older, finicky friends who ditched you at the mall. Mike smiled and put the key in the ignition. “Dude, we’re fucking free, now!”

He turned the key. Nothing happened. He pumped the gas pedal a few times and turned the key again. Nothing. Our freedom had to wait until we could push the car three miles to Mike’s house.

We finished pushing the half-ton land yacht to Mike’s driveway and collapsed in the shade of his porch. Being out of breath and sweating profusely, we had to settle just looking at the car for the next 20 minutes. As I stared at the car, it occurred to me that I’d have to figure out some way to get it started and running so it would be something more than a big yellow status symbol of our Freedom. Until internal combustion took place, Freedom was firmly rooted to Mike’s driveway.

That’s when we noticed the car rolling backwards. It turns out I was mistaken. Freedom was on the move, just away from us and out into the street to be struck by the speeding semi of Progress. Freedom needed a new parking brake.

After we pushed the car back up the driveway and stuck a rock behind the tire, our first order of business was to pop the hood and see what mechanical hell awaited us. I gazed at the engine, along with the attendant hoses and wires. I had no idea what I was looking at, since the only thing I knew of automotive maintenance was that I was always standing in my Dad’s light or holding the light for him. I knowingly nodded anyway and as Mike came around the front and stood beside me, I gave my diagnosis. “Starter’s probably shot.”

I had heard my Dad mention such a device once, and it seemed like the logical choice, given the car’s inability to start.

Mike nodded and gave his opinion. “We need to paint this fucker orange.”

“Yeah – wait, what?”

“Yeah man, paint this fucker bright orange, just like a traffic cone. And put some chrome headers on this fucker, too. That’d be awesome!”

I gave his advice its due consideration. “You’re talking about the engine, right?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“But it doesn’t work.”

“Oh, we’ll figure it out.” Mike was an incurable optimist; however, his optimism often ran contrary to objective reality and objective reality stated that I’d have to figure out how an engine worked and then proceed to repair it on my own while Mike entertained dreams of a bright orange Big Block.

“Oh, and a chrome fucking air filter!”

And a chrome fucking air filter, too.

Stay tuned for Part II

Paul is a many of many talents. He can speak Klingon and change your oil filter.

Car Archives

Cars of the Night: We Love it When a Plan Comes Together

Cars. This site started with our mutual love of muscle cars and we’ve kind of neglected that topic for a while. And being that today’s contributor stories were all a bit on the heavy side, we decided to have a little fun with our topic tonight. Rough sex, Iraq and sleeping on a couch are all well and good, but sometimes you just gotta kick back and say, let's not think too hard tonight.

A while back we did a thing on movie and tv cars. We put our favorites out there and then you all gave us some of your favorites. So we reached back into that post and pulled out two more tv cars to have some fun with tonight.

Michele revs her engine first:

I had a couple of cars in mind here. Dragula. Frankenstein from Death Race 2000. Cool cars. But then I remembered. There was one car that always bugged me. One car that really fucked me up when I watched this show after smoking a joint or two and my mind would start to do that weird overthinking thing. Why are there so many shades of orange? What would peanut butter taste like with Velveeta? How the fuck does this car I'm looking at work?

Continue reading "Cars of the Night: We Love it When a Plan Comes Together" »

car of the day: I'm just here for the gasoline

As we said earlier today, we will write on any topic you want us too. We actually kind of like it when you give us challenges in topics. We write all the time and like to push ourselves. Just don't send us anything weird like child porn ideas or asking us to explain how to make methampheatamine. I think there are laws about that so try to keep you suggestions down to cars and music and other stuff we do around here. We try to get these out as fast as possible, but as you can see from todays post, on the weekends we slow down and take things a little bit slower. But, if you really want to get something done, fuck up you email so turtle gets frustrated that he can't thank you, and you will probably get your suggestion done the same day. I'm not saying do it all the time, cause we can figure out pretty fast if you are fucking with us.

But remember. If you want us to do an idea, please have a working address and a sense of humor. So tonight is reader request night. We hope you smile.

Little more about how FTTW works. The more you know..

Continue reading "car of the day: I'm just here for the gasoline" »

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Car of the Night: Dodge Dart

Cars! Cars! Cars! Those things that move you around. Make you look cool, or sad depending on what you are driving, but cars! They are low down, brown and proud. We have been kinda getting getting off track lately like a hooker who suddenly decided she doesn't like anal sex, but we are back! New underground stories will be back tomorrow. More Norway. More Pirates. More kids. More vodka. But for now, we needed to write about a car. We both thought about it and sat for a bit. Little did we know all we had to do was look up to our header to get our next idea.

This site was founded on the love of punk rock and cars. Cars have been left a little in the back since we started the best punk rock albums of each decade polls and I guess we all got caught up in the excitment. But, we have came back to our roots. Punk rock, anal sex with hookers, discussions with pimps about why "Cherry" doesn't like to walk up the backdoor anymore, getting bitch slapped by "Chocolate Slim" with the butt of a .38 revolver after complaining to him that "Cherry doesn't like it up the Mud Shoot anymore. I want my money back!" and cars! Well, maybe the prostitute thing was just me. And maybe it never happened.........um, cars! That whats we were talking about! And what better car to celebrate this Monday than a car that showed the begining and the end of all muscle cars:

The Doge Dart!

Dodge Dart Swinger - 1973

Dodge Swinger, 1973
Top down, chassis low
Panel dim
Light drive
Jesus on the dashboard
T-minus whenever it feels right

You hear “Dodge Dart” and you probably think “nuns drive those cars.” Yea, maybe later on they did. But not back then. Not in the late 60's and early 70's. Nuns did not drive the Dodge Dart Swinger. Well, if you knew a nun that drove a car like this, she must have been a pretty cool sister. Maybe she wore a mini skirt under her habit and smoked non filtered cigarettes and listened to Led Zeppelin. Well, mostly Stairway to Heaven. So she can feel like she’s staying on topic with her boss. As Jesus stares her down from the dashboard.

Dodge Swinger, 1973
Flaps down, chassis free
Buzz Aldrin, Armstrong
Or maybe just me
Don't worry, He's coming
Don't worry, She's coming
Jesus on the dashboard, oh yeah!
Whenever it feels right

No, this wasn’t a nun’s car. This was too much for a woman of virtue. But me? I’m no woman of virtue. I’d drive this thing. Drive it right. Go out at 4am and cruise the highway and feel the power of the engine beneath me and the stars above me. Turn up the radio, stare down Jesus, lean back in the seat and get that needle up to 100 and then imagine I’m about to take off.

Once around the sun
Cruising, climbing
Jupiter cyclops winks at me
Yeah, he knows who's driving
Hit neutral in the tail of a comet
Let the vortex pull my weight
Push the seat back a little lower
Watch light bend in the blower
Planets align, a king is born
Dodge Swinger

Maybe I’ve got some fuzzy dice hanging from the mirror. Something on the radio with a lot of bass so I can feel it in my feet and legs as move the car down the highway. Something slow and heavy that will make me feel like gravity is pulling me down as I take my Dodge Swinger up. The dice move with the wind because the windows are all down. My hair blows around. Sparks fly from my cigarette.

Jesus on the dashboard, oh yeah!
Whenever it feels right
It feels right. Even in lime green, it feels right.

Dodge Swinger, 1973.

*lyrics, music: Clutch - Spacegrass -M

1966 Dodge Dart

Let's stop fucking around. Let's get down to a true car that defined destruction, speed, stamina, and a bunch of kickass movies. This is the one that you think was rolling with the perfect family, the one with two and a half kids with the crappy TV watching highlights of the Vietnam war while the two and a half kids experimented with two and a half hits of LSD in the backseat. Wondering why Jesus was talking to them through their thumb. Jesus Thumb? But, if it was the Jesus Thumb, where are the other three disciples? I only count nine? Plus Jesus Thumb. Where did the others go? Their fingers resembling some sort of last supper while they just wondered who was missing. But it wasn't that type of car. This was the car of the apocolypse. The car that could make it anywhere.

I have no clue why this car looks so purely evil. Even this one brings back some memories. This is when the style started chaging. You couldn't watch war on TV like you can now. Back then seeing dead bodies was a shock that families watched over dinner and shook their heads as their world slowly slipped away. Every night watching a war on TV is like turning a page in a book for us now. Now we watch "24" and think of things like, "Man, Jack should've cut his eye out. Pussy." But back then, that shocked the shit out of the old people and the younger generation. Things were changing.These times they are a changing...god I hate Bob Dylan, but that's beside the point. turtle cam! turtle cam!*

This car was the pinnacle of the "welp, kiss this type of body off days cause I'm gonna have fun if Ho Chi Min is gonna be knocking at my door tomorrow." Cars changed as thoughts were changed. Things got meaner. The world got meaner. This car got meaner. When at one time it was just a family car it soon became the car of the end. I think I took to many psychology classes in college. But thats beside the point. The only thing you have to remember is this was Chucky Chuck Heston's, that's Charles to you, ride in Omega Man!

Chucky, fear of the dark, NRA, albino mutants, interacial sex, the end of the world and yes, yes my friends....the Dodge Dart. This movie had so much going for it, it almost screams to be remade in to a huge movie or a cheap porno filmed in a hotel. Either one I'd be happy with. As long as someone got laid in that car, I'd be happy. Sure I'd be happier if it was two lesbians experimenting for their first time, but that's just me. Any remake would be good as long as it had this car in it. Cause really dude. This was the end car. It meant so much to the movie. Sex, liquor, guns, and women. This was the car that got Charles to where he needed to go.

Or maybe that was a Buick Skylark.

Hm.

Cool car anyways. And if someone steals my idea for an Omega Man Porn.

I will sue you. - T

Angry Samoans - Hot Cars
Buzzcocks Fast Cars

By the way, the car on our header is a 1970 Dodge Dart. This particular one, actually.

We still are taking any suggestions about cars. Gmail us, please with what you want us to review. We won't be that brutal. We swear. Really.

*remember the other day when turtle said everytime he went off topic he would link to the turtle cam? and he might be naked? eating chili dogs? playing with legos? yea, he went off topic there. so you get the turtle cam treat. looks like some kind of watersport going on there.... -m

cars/video games of the day: drinking and driving

Ok. After today's incident of me exposing my love to Michele for all you to mock, I am back. We needed something easy and fun to do. It's a slow weekend so we will probably put out the 70's poll in a few hours and leave it up for a few days. It's done and totally ready to get kicked out, but we realize some of you older folks might be playing with your new Ronco Dial-aHeart Kicker to give us your full input. So it will be up for a few days. So that will be later today. The vote poll like thingy.

But for now, we decided we need to get back to cars. We know we have been taking a break on the vroom vrooms for a few days now, but hey dude, it's a four day weekend. You're lucky I'm still awake and Michele isn't packing kids to parties. It sometimes happens. I sleep. She shuttles.

But we will get back on scheldule on Wednesday. Until then we are just gonna fuck around and have fun with you guys. Nothing serious, although we do have alot loaded up that we won't kick out for a few more days just cause of the holiday. I think we have and Underground and a few other things waiting. The 80's nomination will start on Wednesday and go through Thursday.

On this sleepy Sunday, we were lucky enough to have someone suggest a topic for us so we didn't have to think of one. This particular post was inspired by Michele's friend and talented artist Adam Warren who emailed and suggested we combine our love of cars with our fondness for video games. (you can see a lot of Adam’s work in Playstation Magazine. Check out the link for more of his famous artwork).

Video game cars. What's you favorite?

Here's ours.

Spy Hunter

This was a pretty easy game for me to pick. This game cried out to you. '83 or '84? Somewhere around there. I can't really remember. I used to see this sit down version in bars and pool halls. Yes, I grew up in bars. No, it wasn't as cool as you would like to think. Kinda like someone who wants to get backstage at a show. Trying so hard, then seeing what it is. The look of disappointment on their face as we packed in a sandwich from some cheap deli. Bars aren't that great of a place to come up in. So you learn to take what you can get.

But Spy Hunter was cool. Kinda like a Bump and Jump but with guns. And oil slicks. And smoke. And different gears. Ok, maybe it was nothing at all like Bump and Jump. I was wrong there.

But in this game you drove the coolest car. The fastest machine. You had the collest weapons. You weren't a spy hunter. You were justa killer. One of the greatest all out killing games since "Elevator Action". Playing this on four types of drugs with a beer in your hand, you stopped being you.

You became a killing machine.

You laughed as the cars spun out beside you from the oil. Crashing into the side of the road. Burning iron and metal. That's what was left in the background from some fool who wanted you dead. He made a mistake. He buried himself. The hell with him. If we are going all out, I'm using all my resources. Pushing the bikers into the bad guys. Innocents have to sometimes be sacrafied for the good of the mission. What that mission was about was your call. Cars would crash. People would scream. Peter Gunn would be playing. And you would be killing. Plus, you were in a cool car! Your beer would be empty.Get another. Call the waitress over to you. You can't stop now. You just got oil slicks. Drinking and driving had never been that much fun. Nothing could be better then this moment. Cars would come up beside you, spikes on their wheels. Trying to ram you. You couldn't shoot behind you. You had to drive. Drop oil or smoke. Nothing could be better then this. Nothing.

WAIT!

You got missles!

Missles, man! Missles!

My life was now complete.

As long as I can get another fucking beer. Waitress! Yes, I'm fucking 21! Do you think I'd be in a bar if I wasn't? I don't have an ID. I lost it here last night and you said you would find it! So who dropped the ball here, babe? Me or you? Can you just get me another beer while I save humanity from something or other?

Spy Hunter

That was a cool game. - T

Rally X

This was the simplest looking game. Like Pac-Man, but with a car, right?* How hard could it be. Well, you have to take the extenuating circumstance into consideration here. I played this game in a club. Rumbottoms, I think. So you take this simple little maze/car game and throw in a few stiff drinks and some crappy Doors cover band playing in the background to distract you and, well, it wasn’t all that simple of a game.

Ok, so let’s drive this little car around. I’m the queen of video games here. The expert. This game is gonna be so easy I’ll be bored in five minutes, and I’ll go back to heckling the Jim Morrison wannabe. Ok car, drive. No, not that way. The other way. I’m not that drunk. I’ve only had one or two shots. Damn it. Where the hell are you going? Why do you keep hitting the wall? Dude, focus! Stay on track! It’s a god damn joystick and a stupid little car, why can’t you keep it on track. Oh fuck. The red cars. They are after me. Hurry, think. What to do? What are these buttons for? Mash, mash, mash the button! Smoke! The car is blowing smoke out its ass! Jim Morrison is singing Strange Days. My car is running out of fuel. I need another shot of whatever that was I was drinking. Yea, drinking and driving the Rally X car. This is not going well. Someone put a cigarette in my mouth and light it please, because I’m not letting go of this joystick. I am gonna make this fucker run this course right. Red car! Red car! Come on, let’s blow some smoke out of our ass....what the hell? They give you a weapon, but you lose fuel when you use it? What the hell kind of deranged thinking is that? You gotta kill these guys but you end up killing yourself in the process. Oh! Hit the wall again. Wheels spinning. Jim Morrison sings. The blue bus is calling us. Dude, fuck your blue bus. This red car is calling me. It’s mocking me. Wait. Bonus round! What the hell? You can run out of fuel in the fucking bonus round? Who designed this game? Marquis de Sade?

It looked so simple. Simple as the bass line to Love Me Two Times. Simple as the doofus flipping his quarter around behind me who doesn’t get the hint that I’m not leaving this game. So many levels, so few Doors songs left. One more shot. One more encore. Yea, a cover band in a shitty bar is doing an encore. I’ve got one more quarter. Friends gather around the machine. They want to go home. Jim Morrison Jr. is butchering Crystal Ship. Ok, keep your cool. Stop banging into the god damn walls. What the hell is wrong with this car? Is it retarded or is it just me? Move, car, move! Red guy! Red guy! HAHAH I AM BLOWING SMOKE OUT MY ASS! I GOT YOU FUCKER!! Yea. I got this car going. This little bastard is a mean machine once you’ve got enough kamikaze shots inside you to get your adrenaline going. This is the only car of its kind where you need to drink in order to drive it. Drop those smoke bombs! We’re on a mission from God! We’re gonna clear those flags and move on to the next round!

The band comes out for its second show. My friends are gone. The dude with the quarter gives up and starts playing pinball. Jim breaks out into a drunken version of Love Me Two Times. It’s just me and my car. My friends let me down. Jim let me down. My car won’t let me........fuck. Out of fuel again. Stupid game. Stupid joystick. Stupid car. I’m gonna go find my friends and get the hell out of here. Hey, what’s this? I’ve got another dollar. That’s four quarters from the bartender! Pinball guy buys me a shot. Jim starts singing Alabama Song. Come on car, let’s blow some smoke out of our ass. It’s only 1am. I’ve got four quarters and no ride home. Might as well drive this fucker into the sunset.

*It actually ran on pac-man hardware - M

SNFU - The Quest for Fun
The Business - Drinkin' n Drivin'

Update: Matt at OBE has a neat post up about video games.

car of the day: chevy impala

When turtle said, let’s do the Impala, I got all excited. Yea, my grandpa had an Impala! Oh, wait. Look at these pictures. No good. Grandpa got his Impala long after they stopped being cool looking. I mean, gramps wasn’t exactly a “let’s go cruising in a muscle car” kind of guy. He was more of a “let’s drink this jug of wine and then ram my piece of shit car against the garage wall because I’m so drunk I thought I was on the street and not still in the garage” kind of guy. Yea, by the time gramps got an Impala, they had transformed into something a nun (or a drunk Italian grandfather) would drive. Nothing like this beauty, which I am writing about tonight:

That’s a 68 Impala Super Sport. Oh yea, I have a thing for those SS cars. There are a lot of variations of the 68 Impala, it seems, but this one is my favorite.

Take a good look at that car. You know what that reminds me of? A greaser. No, not a greaser like Kenickie or the dude Travolta played in Grease. No greased lightning here. This is Outsiders greaser. Remember The Outsiders? Sure you do. We all read it. Or at least you saw the movie. What a cast. Matt Dillon. Tom Cruise. Rob Lowe. Emilio Estevez. Leif Fucking Garret. That movie was a wet dream inspiration. Plus, I loved the book. Seventh grade, I read that book once a week for the entire year until I knew it by heart and the pages were all crudded up with nicotine and Cheese Doodle stains.

Ok, car. We are talking about a car here. Ok:

Bob Shelton: You guys know what greasers are? White trash with long, greasy hair.
Ponyboy: You know what a soc is?
Bob Shelton: What?
Ponyboy: White trash with mustangs and madras.

So this Impala, it’s total greaser. Can’t you picture Dally in this car? Or was that Darry? Matt Dillon....Patrick Swayze...hmm, I’ll take Dillon. Yea he made some crap movies (Herbie Fully Loaded? Did he owe someone a favor?) but he made Singles and that rules over Roadhouse * and that dancing movie any day of the week.

I’m having some attention deficit problems here tonight. Sorry.

The car. Yea, I can see this baby full of greasers. Johnny and Dally up front, smoking cigarettes and bitching about life. Sodapop and Ponyboy in the back seat, cursing out the window. Ready for a fight. A rumble. Have you ever been in a rumble? I was. Almost. Sorta. Remind me to tell you that story some day. But the Impala. All greaser. No socs allowed in this vehicle, please. In fact, this car was made to destroy socs. Yea. Like Death Race 2000. Socs are worth 500 points each! Dally gunning the engine, spotting Cherry Valance standing in the middle of the road, flipping her hair. Gun the engine. Step on the gas. The car is a blur of black fury as it heads towards that stuck up bitch. Sodapop and Ponyboy laughing maniacally. Johnny...well, that’s Ralph Macchio and he’s not that great an actor so he’s probably making the same goofy face he makes in all his movies. Maybe he’s yelling WAX ON, WAX OFF! Well, too late for your zen chants, Ralphie boy because this 68 Impala SS (see how I kept on topic there?) just made road pizza out of Miss Cherry Valance. Scooooooooooore! LET'S DO IT FOR JOHNNY, MAN. WE'LL DO IT FOR JOHNNY!

You know, it kind of upset me that Leif Garrett played a Soc in that movie. He was my first major crush. I had so many teenage fantasies about him that I had to start thinking about Leif Ericsson instead of Garrett when I went to bed at night in order to not go blind or grow hair on my palms or whatever. He should have traded places with Patrick “Oh look at me I can dance!” Swayze in that flick. That would have worked.

Shit. Impala, Impala, Impala. Damn cool car.

God damn, I made some strong coffee today.

Stay gold, Ponyboy. Stay gold.

*listen, I've disparaged Roadhouse before and got reamed out for it. I don't care. I'm really not afraid of you Roadhouse fans. Afraid of Patrick Swayze fans? I don't think so. And though turtle thinks Swayze is the most underrated actor of our time. I'm gonna have to laugh at that. Hello? Kurt Russell? Overboard? Hell, I'd put Roadhouse up against Big Trouble in Little China in a steel cage match any day of the week. -M

Impala. An Impala. Why did I say Impala? I must have had some kind of dream. A lot of you know that I didn't grow up in the best places so sometimes when Michele asks me about my past, it brings up memories of when I was younger. I don't know why, but sometimes these thoughts get carried into my dreams. Maybe that's why I thought of this car. Telling anyone about how you grew up is always going to bring back memories. Since this is a site about cars and since tonight was car night maybe that's how it got there.

Or maybe it was watching an old Snoop Doggy Dogg video.

The 1962 Impala!

Oh yeah. These were the true lowrider cars. When you saw these roll by you had a feeling there was power under there, but why bother using it if you don't have to? Las muchachas todavía estarán allí. The putas will still be there. Why rush? They will still be where we are going. They aren't leaving. Let's get some 40's and just cruise for a while. Slow the car down and just ride. Everyone sit as low as you can and let's just cruise.

This car is basically an ocean. No, I really mean it. If you have every been in one of these, you feel like you are just floating. Just moving along, drinking and floating in the ocean. Just happy your head is above water so can see if the policia or la migra was around. Cause that river's cold and I don't want to swim it again.

Oh, this has nowhere to go but down.

But this car was a machine that basically was machismo defined. Something that said, "You see this? This is the same size of my cojones." Well, maybe it didn't say that. I might have just been thinking about it. When you rode in this car, you felt cool. The big thing turned out to be the hydraulics . Who in the hell ever thought up this idea? Cars can do that? Raise one wheel off the ground? Bounce? Really? That is cool. When you saw that happening you knew to either walk away or go closer. The car bouncing was pure machismo. "Oh, yeah. You think this car goes up, you should imagine your chocha on my pigna. The way this car moves, is the way i make love, baby. Hard, long, high and on asphalt."

Well, maybe the asphalt part.

But just a really cool car that if you rode in it, you needed a hat. I think thats how I got my hat fetish. But, you had to have one. You needed to pull it down. Not a baseball hat or shit like that. This had to be a cool "Friends Approved" hat. Those are expensive. But you look cool in one. You also had to have a wife beater. Before anyone was let in the car, they were issued a wife beater. Kinda like a nice restaraunt won't let you in without a jacket, this car demanded a wife beater.

This is a cool car that did incredible things and taught me the true meaning of machismo.

Coche loco.

*listen, Michele obviously doesn't know the impact of such a great actor. Patrick Swayze has defined the bar fighting movies. Instead of arguing with her, I will simply feel sad for her missing the fine action movies from a man who has brought us such great movies as Ghost, Dirty Dancing, Red Dawn and, of course, Roadhouse. So the next time your car overheats and you know to piss in the radiator to cool it down? Swayze and the Wolverines taught you that little trick -T

Manic Hispanic Brand New Impala
Get Up Kids Stay Gold Ponyboy

Update: A '64 Impala, just for Pril (see comments)

car of the night: i'm your ice cream man

It's that time again, folks.

We asked you. You told us. We listen to your needs. See that's we do here. We want to have fun, so if you contact us with an idea, chances are if it's nothing like "shut the fuck up" we will do it. Cause that would be kinda hard to do. Shutting up is hard for us. We talk in our sleep. That would be asking a lot from us.

Tonight's idea comes from mr b and w. And thank you for the idea. Sometimes I wonder where these ideas come from and why some of you are hell bent on giving us the hardest things to review. I'm mean jeez guys, now we have to do a Meatmen review, the most offensive song list, and an Ice Cream truck in one week? Give us a little space here, ok?

In all reality and honesty.

We asked and you replied. Thank you for all your input. We can work off anything. So if you have an idea, email us. Cause you guys having fun is what makes us smile. This one is for mr. b and w. Have fun reading it and keep sending us ideas. Tonights car/truck.......

An ice cream truck!

Ready?

Here we go!

We were asked to what? Ice cream trucks?

Well, let me just tell you. I haven't had that many pleasant real life experiences with ice cream trucks. I was never a kid who ran down the street chasing after them and begging money off dad to get a "Whateverthefuck Cone." That's just not my style. I don't work like that. Ice cream is only for sad people who need to be cheered up. I was too busy watching Little House to be sad.

Don't get me wrong. The concept was cool. Ice cream. In front of your house. Right there. In front of you. Playing a little song. That song was kiddie cocaine. My friends would bolt out of the door like they just fucked the neighbor's wife and her husband came home. Crawling out windows and doors just to get to the van.

But really, where I grew up, not many would come by. The closest I got to it was a little old guy with an ancient push cart that would ring his bell as he walked through your street. It was one of those things with an umbrella. He looked so tired, you could see he really didn't want to be doing this. But rather, he had to be doing this. It was kinda sad. But for the kids, even sadder to see what he was selling.

Not ice cream. Oh no. This was the barrio. Ice cream was weak. We didn't need that. Or, at least I didn't. I never got the concept of ice cream. But then again I chomp down Chik-O-Stixs daily, so you can tell my priorties are kinda screwy.

But, I ran out there! Fast as I could! Everytime I heard his bell. And got me a hot tamale. Cause that's life. Fresh cooked tamales. Sitting in the shade just enjoying it. The corn and the flavor. Heaven.

Keep in mind this was before I started smoking. All food turned into blandless, grey material that needed to be covered in hot sauce so I could taste something.

Oh. I quit smoking by the way. Now I can tell how shitty Taco Bell tastes. Don't let me get started on Del Taco.

Wait. Wait. I'm getting off track here. I can feel it.

This is about cars. Not turtle and tamales. I must be hungry. Let's get back to the story.

THE greatest ice cream truck of all time!

Cheech and Chongs ride in "Nice Dreams". Oh my god. What a concept. What an amazing truck. What an amazing ride. It surved so many purposes. It drove them around to sell dope. It sold ice cream, well they ate ice cream, but we can talk about that later. It was a music van with kicked out cabs so they could dig shit out when they were bored. And it was kinda cool looking. Just the fact that it had Cheech and Chong in it made it cool. Plus, it sold dope. Dope to house. Kinda like Pizza Hut delievery, cept with this one you get balls out stoned and watch TV. Or turn into a lizard. Or something like that.

Oh yeah. By this time in Cheech and Chong's career, the drugs were taking a toll.

But really. Wouldn't you want a dealer to come by your house with a little song to let you know he was coming by? I mean really. All you need next is someone to hold the bong to your face and you don't need to move. This is like Jetsons technology. All you need is a robot to shave you and some little bastard named Elroy running around and your life is complete. And maybe sex with Jane. And a dog. Well, maybe not sex with the dog. That fucker was big. You might end up being the bottom if you didn't give him a Milk Bone when he wanted one. Jesus. A dog raping you. That's all I want to think about tonight.

Why do I always end up with cartoon sex analogies?

Hm.

Anyways.

That's my salute to the ice cream truck. I could tell you more about the ice cream driver who blasted "i'm your ice cream man" by Van Halen everytime he booked down our street. Cranked out his speakers. But if I do, Michele will link that god damn song. So I think I'll just keep that story to myself. -T

Maybe there was a time when I thought ice cream trucks were the stuff of innocence; running down the street with two quarters in hand on a hot summer day, bare feet getting scorched on the blacktop road, all of us in bathing suits and wet hair and sunburned faces screaming “Stop! Stop!” and then gathering around the truck trying to decide which treat to get and then later on washing off all the colored stickiness of the cherry ice pop in the pool. Maybe I remember that. Maybe.

If I did have experience like that they all went to hell when Al the Ice Cream Man showed up. I guess the regular guy that came down our block retired and Al took over. Al didn’t talk much, didn’t banter with us or make jokes like other ice cream guys I’d heard about. Al was kinda cranky. While all the other kids on the block were content to let Al be grumpy and quiet, I decided I would take it upon myself to figure out what the fuck Al’s problem was. See, I wanted the whole world to be happy. Because the world was a happy place. Puppy dogs and fluffy clouds and rainbows and ice cream men who smiled at you. Al was wrecking my 11 year old world view. I had to fix that.

So one day Al comes around and all the kids buy ices and scatter to their yards and I just kind of linger around, pretending like I hadn’t been able to choose. Al grunts at me. I smile. He makes a half smile and tells me, in a thick accent I couldn’t quite place, to hurry it up. Ok, I was 11. I wasn’t quite schooled in the ways of couth or subtlety yet. I just blurted out to him “Why are you so mad all the time? Why don’t you smile? Don’t you like kids? We’re pretty nice to you.” And with that, Al rolled up the sleeve on his shirt, twisted his arm around in front of my face and said “See that? See?” I saw some numbers on his arm. I was confused. Al could see it in my face. “Go ask your parents what this means. Then you will know. I will never be happy again.” Jesus, dude. Someone tattooed some numbers on your arm when you were drunk or something? Same thing happened to my cousin (though it was a naked lady, not numbers) and he got over it. I told him that story. He looked at me with something close to disdain. Maybe more like pure hatred. Well, you can guess what happened when I went home and asked my parents about it. I spent the rest of the summer avoiding Al and feeling really guilty. He remained our ice cream man for the next four summers before he moved to another neighborhood, and every time I bought ice cream from him we exchanged this knowing glance as if to say “Ok, I’m freaking sorry already, I said it 100 times” and “Say you are sorry all you want. I still don’t like you.”

Cut to five years later. Hitchhiking home from high school one day. Yea, I know, stupid idea. It was the 70's. We were all stupid back then. Anyhow, some guy picks up and gives us a ride for about three miles then says he’s gonna let us out at the next traffic light. Cool. We get to the light. Mary opens the car door without looking and there’s a sudden BAM! and the whole car shakes and moves. What the hell? The door is gone. The door of the car is gone. I look around and see Al in his ice cream truck, the door of the car we were in laying on the road in front of the truck. Fuck. I got out of the car and left Mary to deal with the irate guy who picked us up. I walked over to Al’s truck, looked in the window at him and just kinda shrugged. He looked down at me and said, simply, “Oh. You.”

Honestly, I always thought of ice cream trucks as evil kind of things. Maybe it was the whole Chitty Chitty Bang Bang scenario. Like the guys in the trucks were really out to get you and the Fudgicles and King Cones were just a ruse to kidnap innocent kids. I would lay in bed on summer nights when I was real small and hear the bells ring as the truck made its last drive around the block for the night and I would get a shiver down my spine. They’re coming to get you, Barbara. Yea. Zombie ice cream truck drivers. Night of the Lving Sno Cones. You think I’m crazy but just two years ago there was this ice cream truck that came down my street playing the them to Rosemary’s Baby. I kid you not. He drove around the block about six times each night just playing that tune over and over. And he was in competition with this other truck who was playing It’s A Small World. Talk about the powers of evil. Those two songs clashing together in the night as one truck came down the street from the east and the other came down the street from the west, heading right for each other, each turning up their music until the whole block was bathed in a cacophony of It’s A Small Rosemary’s Baby World and I would cover my ears with my hands and close my eyes thinking, it’s gonna blow. It’s gonna blow. This is the seventh sign. The streets are gonna buckle and the gates of hell will rise up out of the black top and the four horsemen will come and Robert Frost will have been half right, the world will end in ice - a torrent of Spiderman and Snoopy ice pops and Popsicles of every color of the Satan rainbow and when all is said and done, the visage of Mr. Softee will be seen in the sky, letting out an evil laugh that is 80% evil and 20 % whole milk.

I really don’t care for ice cream men too much.

Cheech and Chong - Earache My Eye
Fantomas - Rosemary's Baby
Van Halen - Ice Cream*

*oh come on, it was like he practically dared me to do it

world cup, italian cars and...frontier sex?

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

Cartoons and Night Train. That can only mean one thing....Movie Car Night!

We as writers needed a little break. We needed to have some fun. Just to laugh for a few minutes before we got back into the usual pace we are at. Which is pretty fucking breakneck. Sitting back, thinking of what we wanted to do today, we both remembered something that cracked us up a little but ago and we decided to kick it in as our afternoon post. Something we just mentioned about cars that we got bombed on reader comments. So what the fuck. Let's do it again. You guys seemed to liked it before and we need a laugh. Ready?

Movie Cars Part 2!!

Yeah we don't do this that often, but we wanted to have fun. So enjoy it!

Bluesmobile - 1974 Dodge Monaco

A car that was bought at a cop auction. Powered by god himself. What the fuck? Cops and god? And cigarettes? And Nighttrain wine? And being late for shows? Oh...this is classic. This car could move through anything. Get away from anything. Escape from anything. It could do anything. It would even kill its own kind to get to the Cook County Assesor's office in time. Those orphans needed saving. They needed to hear the blues. This car was the one that would do it for them. They knew it, god knew it, and it knew it. It could do anything. Well, almost anything. It couldn't light your cigarette. You were on your own for that. Broken lighter.

It's had a cop motor, a 440 cubic inch plant, it had cop tires, cop suspensions, cop shocks. It was model made before catalytic converters so it ran good on regular gas. It could do anything.

But it had a broken cigarette lighter. That was the only sucky thing.

See dude. That's fucking cool. This car was power. Not in engine wise power. But the backup behind it. It was on a mission. It would get through this. It would help you. But it sure wasn't gonna be happy on regular gas. Sure, that's a thing of the past now. But back then, a car that could take the cheaper gas was like an over the hill hooker at a bar who still could fuck your brains out, but you could see the years in her face and you wouldn't have to pay as much. Beat the fuck up looking. But just moving. Powered by god to just keep moving. And moving faster. Like cops had been using it for years and it got out. Just to help two people who were fucked up. Three fucked up souls. Two human. One Bluesmobile. All together. They were gonna get into this show together and they were fucking gonna get out together. God commanded it. I think it was even in some chapter in the bible or the Koran but don't quote me on that.

One of the best movie cars of all time. This car had life. It had fire. It knew evil. It knew good. It knew what it had to do. Sure it didn't like these assholes sitting on it or that cheap gas. But it had to do what it had to do.

This might be the "turtle took too much acid as a kid thing again" but who knows?

This car was cool.

It didn't have a shitload of power or look that cool. But once it jumped that bridge, you all know you fell in love with it.

And you know you all cried a little when it died. That car...died...no....

It had done it's job. It had gotten them to them to the Cook County Assesor's office. This car helped two souls get out of purgatory.

A car that cared enough to die for them and kill its own kind.

That's like the ending of "Old Yeller".

Pure tears. - T

The Mystery Machine

Let me preface this by saying that I never really liked Scooby-Doo. I didn’t watch the show in its original airing, but when it switched to ABC sometime in the mid 70's, I got stuck watching it at my friend’s house because for some reason, most of my friends found it amusing. Or maybe they just didn’t know better. They were content to get stoned and sit in front of the tv, all slack jawed and red-eyed and hands stained by Cheetos, mesmerized by the day’s mysterious entity doing mysterious things in mysterious surroundings. Not me. I kept saying to them “Guys, don’t you realize it’s the same mystery day after day, just with different characters? Don’t you realize that there never really is a ghost, it’s always just some batty old person trying to wreak havoc on the world? Wake up, guys, you are being played!” But I watched anyhow. I watched for one reason. The Mystery Machine.

See, my mind works in mysterious ways (see how I worked a variation of ‘mystery’ in there? It’s the word of the day!). Instead of focusing on the lame mystery, I focused on...well, no. Focus isn’t the right word. My mind would drift. Was it the drugs? Was it the banality of the show? Who knows? I just know that each episode of Scooby-Doo got me thinking about what really goes on inside that Mystery Machine.

Hey, this was the era of vans. Customized vans were all the rage. And, as I’ve written about before, the insides of these vans often looked like a bizarre amalgamation of Liberace’s decorating sense and Hugh Hefner’s fantasies.

This was the Mystery Machine, man. If the van is rockin’, don’t come knockin’. Know what I mean? We’re talking teenagers here. Well, hmmm. Are we? Were these ghost hunters teenagers? They look kinda old, don’t they? Were they young adults? I never paid enough attention to the show to figure out. But now I’m hoping they were at least of age of consent because in my mind, all they were doing in the back of that Mystery Machine was partying. And by partying I mean snorting lines of cocaine, performing sexual acts that would make John Holmes blush, worshiping Satan and sacrificing small animals and virgins. We’re talking Rosemary’s Baby and Hunter S. Thompson meet Behind the Green Door. Total debauchery.

Hey, don’t look at me like that. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not into cartoon sex or anything. Turtle is the one who was going on the other night about Barney Rubble getting laid. That’s his gig, not mine. I was just imagining what goes on inside every van of that kind. I was high, ok? My mind would wander. Mystery Machine. What was so mysterious about? What darkness and depravity lurked behind those sliding doors? We’re talking bad ass van, people. You have to know that when the mysteries were all solved and the bad guy was in jail and Scooby was tied up in the backyard like a normal fucking dog, those kids kicked back in the Mystery Machine and drove around looking for virgins or a good dealer.

Ass, gas or grass, baby. Nobody rides for free. -M

Dwarves Back Seat of My Car
SNFU Trudging
The Dicks I Hate the Police
Speedealer Double Clutchin Finger Fuckin

car of the night: the corvette

The Corvette. Sheesh. Well, we knew this time was coming. We ask you guys for your input about what cars to review and usually we agree about the coolness of the car. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. Doesn't matter. We always have fun. But today was different. This is how this site works guys and girls. This is little background of how we do this. We both take a subject and think about it. We don't really talk to each other about it til we start writing. We just think, then act. Whatever comes out we kick out to each other first, then to you. Our feelings and memories. Sometimes we agree, sometimes we don't. But it is an interesting process. Today's feature somehow got left in the dust. By that, I mean we both had bad images of it in our heads. Hey, it happens. What can you do? So today's car is one that we both didn't like, and we realize that you submit ideas for cars and we thank you for that, but you have to realize....sometimes they are gonna get bagged. So for today's car...the Corvette. Hold your head low today cause this one might get bad.