//HERE COME’S SPEED RACER//
Dear Teenage Lugnut in the Ridiculous Honda Civic,
Hey, Dude. Saw you check out my car when you pulled up to the stoplight. You tried to be cool about it, but it didn’t work. Didn’t help that you revved your rice-burning engine a little to let me know you were there.
Hard not to notice that machine of yours, Looney Bin Lackin’.
First clue: glow-in-the-dark lime-green paint. Heard the paint coming before I heard that thundering muffler, the kind that sounds like a nasally chainsaw. The sun glinted off your oversized gold-plated wheels as they stopped even with my wheels. By then I could also hear the subwoofer in your trunk, rattling your fancy chrome chainlink license-plate bracket that wasn’t quite tight enough. Love that spoiler, which is twice as tall as the car alone. And those silver stickers of naked women in silhouette. Classy. Bet you’re Numero Uno with the ladies, Bro.
Keep noodling the throttle, Buddy. All it’s going to do is waste gas. This is a long light and it just turned red 30 seconds ago. Relax. Cool your heels. There are three more stoplights in the next mile, Chicken Little. You’ll get to the mall or wherever you’re going soon enough, Abercrombie & Flinch.
I refuse to race you, Playstation. I’m getting too old for that. Don’t need to prove anything to myself or anybody else. You were barely out of Pampers when I became a legal driver, so I’m over thinking a fast car makes the man. It takes a lot more than that, Pokemon.
Green light. I let off the brake and gently tap the accelerator and whoooooooosh. OK, so I fibbed a little. Racing is kind of fun. If you hadn’t been picking your nose or fixing your spiky hair in the mirror, maybe I wouldn’t have beaten you so badly. You look a little ticked off when you pull up at the second stoplight. What’s wrong, Vidal Not-So-Soon?
Yeah, it stings to be beaten off the line by a guy in his late 20s in a stock Mustang GT. With automatic transmission. Got to hurt. All I do is change the oil and have the tires rotated and balanced. Maybe a wash and wax now and then. Why spoil a good thing, Rainbow Brite!
You remember all that time you and your buds spent bolting on that front air dam, Home Cookin’? Or maybe it was the hour or so to install the lighted windshield-washer jets? Or the fancy clear taillights? Or the neon ropelights underneath? You forgot something, Poser. You’ve still got the little bitty economy engine the car had when your mom drove it to church on Sundays. You got the show but no go.
Another green light. You were paying attention this time, but I got you again, Speed Racer. Don’t really have time to play games with you. I’ve got to get to the grocery store before the deli closes. Wife of T-Bone wants some sliced ham and turkey. Swiss cheese, too. And we’re running low on diapers for the Cutlet. That’s what you’ve got to do when you’re a real man.
It’s got nothing to do with the car.
Sincerely,
Texas T-Bone
P.S. In simpler terms, and I’ll write slowly, it’s not how you get there – or even where you’re going – as much as it is who you are when you get back. Looks don’t mean much in a Photoshop World. Chew on that, Jolly Rancher!
