The Crank

The CRANK MANIFESTO: The Sheer Stupidity Of Going “Green”

The Crank

I understand full well the entire diatribe of reasons why we need to get the needle full of foreign oil out of our collective veins. But the main reason remains this: so the fucking Middle East can go back to lobbing sandbags at each other with catapults even the Geico Cavemen would laugh at.  Other expedient energy sources are fine, provided they pass the smell test.  In my own State of Arizona (as well as my regular state of confusion) it should be illegal to build a house without some form of solar energy. It’s called the Valley of the Sun here for a reason, which, of course, is why Nancy Pelosi is pushing for a Phoenix Hydroelectric plan.  Twit.  If you have ever tried to play golf in July here, it’s like the surface of the sun. The skin coming off my back in sheets is a testament to that. You could pee your pants in front of your mother-in-law at 120 degrees and 6% humidity and she wouldn’t know it.  I’m just saying…theoretically.  It’s the only state where your eyeballs actually shrivel. Up until recently, the brain sturgeons on the HOA’s wouldn’t even let you put up a solar panel for fear of ruining you neighbors view! Blistering dorks all.

If I lived around Yellowstone, or in Greenland, I would insist on thermal energy. Ah yes, Yellowstone, natures hot tub, our primordial stew, as it were.  I camp out there often in the hopes that a vertebrate Democrat might one day climb out.

Thermal energy is about the end of my tolerance for these yutzes.  Unless Obamamama plans on spending my great grandchild’s income on updating the entire electric grid, we are all in for an epic fail that magical day when everyone buys their 2010 Chevy Volt. In a few short days, we’ll fry our national grid like raccoons on the third rail.  You’ll see nothing but smoke and the smell of burning oil from their transformers clear into the stratosphere. 

Hybrids, lets talk Hybrids. Jeremy Clarkson said it best in his review of the new Honda Insight in the London Times: “The nickel for the battery has to come from somewhere, Canada usually. It has to be shipped to Japan, not on a sailing boat, I presume. And then it must be converted, not in a tree house, into a battery, and then that battery must be transported, not on an ox cart, to the Insight production plant in Suzuka. And then the finished car has to be shipped, not by Thor Heyerdahl, to Britain, where it can be transported, not by wind, to the home of a man with a beard who thinks he’s doing the world a favor.”


The company in Canada that mines the nickel has the WORST record on environmental pollution of any such company in the world, except China. If the same bearded man from Clarkson-land had purchased a locally made SUV, his “carbon footprint” would move from Lou Ferrigno size to Hannah Montana size. But I’m sure he impresses his like-minded friends.

Now onto florescent lighting. Soon all the U.S. will be forced to buy only the squiggle funny shaped mercury-laden bulbs that you can’t dim, all to save the world. The problem is my noble peons, the Chinese folks that mine the mercury for the bulb are minus the benefit of basic protection, education, or unions.  They are poisoning themselves and the local environment at an alarming rate.

Feeling green, yet? Yeah?  It may just be nausea.

Oh yeah, to meet Obamanation’s new CAFÉ fuel standards, our new cars will be dangerously small and light (they’re only heavy on the bad karma). Check out the crash worthiness tests from the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration. These Matchbox Cars save you money all right. You won’t need to purchase a coffin.  They can just lower you into the hole after the Jaws of Life fail to extract your libertard ass.

Fuck global warming.  Winter sucks a big wet one anyway.  We as a Nation, have lots of drilling to do right here. Offshore drilling MUST happen. The Exxon Valdez was 30 years ago, you tree hugging unshaven green teethed idiots.  Get over it. I want energy I can afford to buy. Clean energy I can’t afford to purchase is a waste of everyone’s time, with the exception of the Green lobbyists, those Congressional “Remoras” that hang on to our politicos to rid them of excess money that may be hanging around their gill slits.

I ♥ dead dinosaurs


California Cranken

The Crank

Did the people of California actually vote for Pelosi and Feinstein?  God, I hope our democracy is just hopelessly broken.  Someone rigged the election, yeah, that’s it.  A good old fashioned election rigging would restore my faith in the…ahhh, broken system.

I make a motion we have all Pelosi voters deported.  She scares the shit out of me. She has six brain cells and all of them on the far left side of her fucking gourd. Not to be outdone, Diane Feinstein deserves the new Stoopid Bitch of the Month award.  Feinstein may be the only vertebrate organism eyeing Pelosi’s six neurons longingly.  Oh, wait she’s  also a Democrat…never mind (someone please edit out the word vertebrate).

After Obama made such a big deal of alternative energy, Feinstein wants so stop solar and wind farms in the Mojave Desert. THE MOJAVE DESERT!! She said it will spoil the pristine desert. What a maroon.

Even Ahnold said “if not in duh desuht, den vhere de hell vould you put dem?”

I know where I would put dem, bitch, or maybe shove dem is more like it, you damn demented Dem dame.

Hey, how about we bring another power line from Arizona through the desert, so the residents of California can feel “environmental” while still heating their fucking pools. I’m SO tired of NIMBY from these Califuckheads. My spell check is not recognizing Califuckheads.  Fucking Microsoft.  You’re not familiar with NIMBY?  From my perspective it stands for: Not In My Backside Y’all.

California steals Arizona’s water and power, as they sit on the shores of the world’s largest ocean? Why don’t you do what the Arabs have been doing for decades?  …no, not fuck with the Jews.  Focus people!  I’m talking about desalination. Oh, that’s right; we can’t.  That would be cruelty to sodium.

Make your own fucking water, people. We, Arizonians, would if we had any. But even if we could, we’d probably have to pipe it all back to you mutherfuckin bastards anyway.

We need a wall all right, but not with Mexico. We need a wall between us and California. We should also make them responsible for their own power, their own water, and their own ass wipeage. Well, maybe we should work up to all three.  Let’s start with ass wipeage.  Then, a few years after the wall, when their all dead, we can harness their oceans, their pristine deserts, and maybe even build the first vertebrate Democrat.

A Crank can dream, can’t he?

So Long My Friend; Real Men Will Miss You

All good things must come to an end; they can’t last forever. These past eight years have gone by in a flash. It seems like only yesterday you were looking over George’s shoulder at his first inaugural, silently saying the oath of office to yourself as George said it aloud, mouthing those immortal words knowing full well you’d be the one doing the real “Presidentin”, as George liked to say. What a great maneuver. How did you get yourself appointed to the office of V.P., or, as you liked to call it, “Virtual President.” What a great feeling it must have been to know that the next pork chop might be your last. What’s an eighteenth cardiac infarction amongst friends, right? It takes all the pressure off making decisions based on future plans. What future? To be able to do what ever the fuck ever you wanted, day or night, for eight years, gives even me a small yet substantial woody (SYSW). When you said “fuck you” to that senator at that photo op, I almost came in my pants, or as I like to call it SYSW + (no really, it was close). When your friend got in the way of a good shot on that hunting trip, you just said to yourself “well, I’ll make sure he doesn’t do THAT again”.


All of us NRA guys understood.

Haliburton got it all, and damn the liberatards. It’s not like you had to worry about public opinion! I’m sure when you watched protests of the Iraq war on TV, you said out loud “It IS all about the oil idiots” with that wonderful little crooked smile of yours. To have the power of the Presidency of the largest economy on earth, without the little hassle of being “elected”, must have given even your ailing ticker a little jump, eh? You always did what was right—for you, and that takes a real man.

Well, we’re all glad you “made-it”(literally) to this point, even though you had us worried there a few times, like in 01’, 02’, 03’, 04’ etc. You got to stay out of the hospital, because that place will kill ya fer sher. I guess you will now go do whatever retired Darth Vaders do: you will mount your trusty wheelchair and roll away into the sunset giving the world the proverbial finger, as we real men say “Thank You, Mr. Virtual President; may we have another?

For eight years, WE were in charge, and it felt good. Now that “That One” is in charge, and our V.P. is just a mindless puppet with terminal foot-in-mouth disease, all of us “men” will just tuck our penises between our legs and limp our way through the next administration. Who knows, maybe we can get the ‘Nuge to run for President in 2012 and I could maybe, just maybe…

Indeed, Mr. Cheney, perhaps I can be trained in the ways of the dark side; heed the call of the Sith Lord. Hmmmmmmm…

And you, old friend, we will watch your retirement with great interest.”

Yours Unruly

Goomis E. Kyaam

Nuge-Cranken in 2012

Mikko, Mikko, Mikko

The Crank

First off, it’s painfully obvious with your rather word-y response to my rant that you have WAY too much time on your hands and WAY too much access to useless information—unless, of course, you harbor the secret desire to be the next William Ef Buckley. Perhaps Charles Johnson’s interpretation of Mahasatipatthana sutra might help, wherein blah, blah, dispassionately examine evidence, blah, blah, product of past conditioning blah, blah, blah. Say fucking what? That, Mikko, expends way too much hot air. Think of global fucking warming the next time you release that much hot air recklessly into our fragile ecosystem.

Let’s get one thing straight from the get-go; I AM the 800 lb gorilla in THIS fucking room. (Uh…my picture?) Though beige I might be, no less gorilla am I. Second, after watching what good do-gooders have done for this world, or lack thereof, and mainly what being a do-gooder has done for the do-gooders themselves (re: you and your family) for the last fifty plus years, I have made a command decision to stop you all in your tracks before you do any more fucking good for you or the rest of us. I have had enough good to last a fucking lifetime. I am good to go, so good riddance to all of you good for nothing good eggs.  Good damn it! 

Where I come from this turn the other cheek shit will get you killed, or at the very least poor and friendless. Its obvious to me that no one with a carbon-water based anatomy can be trusted once they get to power.  The phrase “Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely” will appear on my tombstone.  Look what happened to the northern Germans when you put a Klingon-esque uniform on them. Yes, all life CAN be Trek-Related. If you listen carefully, Klingon does sound juuust a little German.  Why do you think Hitler had such bangs?  He was hiding his forehead ridges.

It doesn’t seem to matter what the politicians say or what they are campaigning on, they all do the same shit when they are in office, and, the young of this world take no advice from their elders. History ignored is history repeated, and you mindless lemmings believe everything you hear, looking up at the podium as if it’s an altar of truth.  Can you say Sich-fucking-Heil, anyone? I sometimes wish bullshit had the color and odor of its namesake.  Even the “journalists” of this generation forget just what the fuck their real job is. Quotes like: “Even the sea gulls hovering above feel the humanity” and “when I listen to him, I get a feeling running up and down my leg?”

Are you kidding me?!

Although the faces have changed in the pressers, nothing else has. In the immortal words of Steven Tyler, “it’s the same old song and dance.”  The same buddies are picked for positions they have NO fucking right or ability to occupy.  The same laws will be changed to fit the current regime. The same useless pork will be spent without regard for the applesauce. They will all have the same disdain for “the little people”. The aristocracy will always feel we lack the academia or the expertise to have a say in anything, and should just “let them do what’s needed.”   Fuck them.  I have spent 50 + years learning by watching, some of it after discovering Ritalin!

I don’t like anything I see…anything! Well, maybe Adderal.

That, you see, is why at some stage, some of us just can’t take it anymore. Young liberatards, not unlike yourself, who have not experienced life as we older folks have, WILL either come to this realization sooner or later, or DIE sad, wondering why it all went down the shitter.

SO, rather than go to bed each night all frustrated and worried, I rant at you! It makes me feel much much better and I sleep like a dead ape. THAT, my little friend, is what it’s all about for me at this stage. 

Yours Unruly


The Crank Manifesto: On Hannity & Zano, a Match Made in Heaven!

The Crank

Sean Hannity, Micko? You couldn’t resist seeking out the only other person on this whole whirling shithole of a planet that can’t let go of George Bush. Did you just happen to tune in on America’s Newsroom with Megyn “Long-Legs” Kelly and Bill Whateverthefuck? No. Did you just happen to tune in on FOX & Friends with Gretchen “Up-Skirt” Carlson? No. How about The FOX Report with Shepard “I’z-Only-Read’n-Wuts-on-de-Teluhpromptr” Smith? No. Not even The O’Reilly Factor with Bill “See-My-Reflection-in-This-Window” O’Reilly? No. It just HAPPENED to be Sean Hannity, a man whose idea of going “green” was buying a Cadillac Escalade Hybrid. BULLSHIT! You’re looking at a mirror image of yourself, there, Micko. Like when the transporter divided Kirk into the “Good” Kirk and the “Bad” Kirk on Star Trek. Alan Colmes got so all-fucking tired of hearing it he quit! Where can an old funny-looking Democrat with a Roswellian-shaped head and 4 million memorized talking points find work? Oh yeah, there’s always MSNBC, where all bad journalists go to die.

FOX News Channel does have other shows that are much more mentally or visually rewarding, depending what’s on your mind (what little there is of it). I can watch Gretchen Carlson for hours with the sound off and find myself strangely satiated, sort of like watching Xena reruns on the queer channel in the middle of the night. I can listen to Megyn Kelly for hours as she makes interviewees look like Neanderthals. I laugh my ass off every evening watching Shep Smith try to talk. There’s also the FOX News brother channel, FOX Business, with Alexis “Can-You-Spell-Cougar” Glick in the morning, or Rebecca “Cuchi-Cuchi” Diamond and Cody “Jumping-Beans-up-My-Ass” Willard during Happy Hour from, of all places, the Bull & Bear Saloon in the Waldorf Astoria. Come on, your Mickness, try it—grow as a person. It’s not too late, no matter what your daughter says.

Why don’t we hear about the fucking 1.5 TRILLION dollars spent on the coronation—er, I mean, “inauguration”? If it were McCain spending that much, you liberal know-it-all fucking idiots would barely be able to walk, what with the raging hard-ons you would all have in anticipation of the media enemas McCain would be receiving.

I’ve got it! It’s like the Star Trek where the guy that’s half black and half white goes into a locked time warp to fight the guy that’s half white and half black for all time. You and old Sean could sit in a sealed room across from one another for all time, debating the great GWB—and no, I don’t mean the bridge. When the Daleks dig up what’s left of our hemorrhoidal civilization in 10 thousand years, they will find—hermetically sealed (hemorrhoidally sealed?) in a locked vault buried deep in a secret military installation in the mountains of Utah—Micko and Sean, locked in a never-ending battle, still debating the same 16 fucking talking points until the end of time.

In the immortal words of Senator John McCain, when he was stopped by Maria Schwarzenegger on camera and asked how he felt upon losing the presidential nomination eight years ago, “Go away, please. Just go away.”

Yours Unruly

THE CRANK MANIFESTO: On Al Cranken and Minnesota Politics

The Crank

DIE, DIE you Troglodytes, DIE.

There, I got that out of my system. Al Franken? AL FUCKING FRANKEN?

Failed funny man Al? Failed FM radio host Al? Failed radio fundraiser Al? Forty-nine fucking votes Franken! Are you people kidding me?  Senator Franken…Senator Al Franken.   One more time, all together…Senator Al Franken?  Are you people wood?

Aren’t you the same developmentally disabled constituents that elected a “wrestler” as your Governor?  Not a real wrestler, mind you, but anI’m not a real wrestler but play one on TV’ wrestler. Have any of you mangy middle-earth compu‘tards seen your wrestler lately? If Mel Brooks had waited until now to film Young Frankenstein just think of the money he could have saved on make-up and special effects.  He could have gotten Jesse to play the monster role for the price of two lousy neck-trodes! Poor Peter Boyle had to endure hours of miserable time in a make-up chair to look just like Jesse Ventura does now. 

Wait a moment…that’s it! Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction; let’s use the brain of Gene Wilder to balance out Ventura’s abby normal brain.  It’s perfect!  Now, what to do about Frankenwhine.  How many comedian brains would it take before he could shift to anything resembling center?  Franken leans so far left that he has to keep his driver-side window down to see forward.

Ultimately, I don’t have to live in Minnesota, so these elected pre-lymbric single-helix mutiods deserve each other. Franken, Reid, Pelosi, Dodd & Frank can join Ventura in a historic line dance rendition of Puttin on the Ritz for all I care. Every state has their loons, but Minnesota is like the eternal flame—the torch that all flying freaks seem to gravitate toward. What is it, the water? Something in the air?  What? 

I know, I know, you’ll leave the light on for me, right?  Keep burning that pyre high, bitches, and maybe some of my fellow Discordians will make that northward Midwestern Mecca. 

If only…


The Crank

Dear Mick,

There are many problems with your last bullshit-filled verbal-diarrhea (BFVD). You claim to be a social liberal but a fiscal conservative. MY ASS. I know you…a little TOO well. You’re only conservative with your “fiscal”. Your friends and family have noticed all too well how “liberal” you are with our fucking “fiscal.” You are a tight ass, Mickky, and your ass is so tight it’s fucking watertight. When you fart it’s like letting the helium out of a balloon by squeezing the opening between your fingers. What sound is emitted can only be heard by dogs. Haven’t you ever noticed how the barking starts in your neighborhood soon after the burrito dinner at Taco Bell?

But I digress. Mick, as I’ve said before, this is a democracy. I’m really not sure you understand the meaning of the word. After all, your whole experience in the world of academia consisted of getting to know the local Buford T. Justices of the world to avoid spending any time behind bars for the fucking 24/7 keg party that you called college—whilst your parents toiled mightily back home to put you through five and a half fucking years for your four-year Liberal Farts degree (bark, bark).  Nice work, by the way, telling them that the school added classes to the degree “at the last minute.”  You’re finished at Faber, Zano! Expelled! I want you off this campus Monday morning! And I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that I have notified your local draft board and told them that you are now eligible for military service….(Sorry)

Anyway, in a democracy, the team with the most votes wins, period. Now, as far as I am concerned, Professor Steven Fucking Hawking could not measure the infinitesimally small iota of care I have on the subject of whether or not gays marry. But, obviously, MOST people do. Just like MOST people voted Obama in. Just like MOST men I know want to do Sarah Palin’s ass, especially when she is peering over toward Russian shores. Majority rules.

The gays do themselves a major disservice by violent protests. The video of a 250 pound male gay knocking over an old lady and trampling on her Cross, stays with me, and will for a long time. I would love to make that guy’s head the hood ornament on my, soon to be worthless, Ram.  Come on?  That level of violence, for such a bullshit problem? I have lived through students deaths at Kent State. That was about young people being killed in Vietnam, not about a word. That’s all this is, a word. Marriage. SO FUCKING WHAT! Most people want gays to have civil unions with all the rights that “married” people do. It’s just that you are about as far away from a religious person, Mikko, as one can get, so you don’t get how important the word “marriage” is to the religious. Let em’ have it! It’s not worth it. Move on, people. But somehow, Mikko, I don’t believe that you will…and in some inexplicable way that makes me very happy.

Yours Unruly



The Crank

Dear Mick,

I see now that even though “The One” has now been officially elected, there can be no real end to the Bush Administration. While the rest of creation is now looking forward to seeing if “ The One,” or as McCain called him—and I prefer—“ That One,” will have a positive impact on life as we know it, people like Mick are now left with an implausible situation. “Now that Bush is ‘Over’, what do I do now?” After all, Mr. Zano has spent eight years of his rather short life totally obsessed with the ‘Evil Empire,’ ‘Darth Bush,’ and a group he calls ‘the Wal-Mart Midgets.’  He has had no real life…just ask his family, his friends, his probation officers!  So now he is left with trying to re-align the rest of his life, or, (and perhaps much easier) keep the “hope” alive.  A hope that somehow The Dark One (Dick Cheney) will re-emerge with more power than before, so Mick Skywalker can teach our descendants all about how he, and others like him, single pen-dedly brought Death-Star Earth to its’ knees.  Although, I admit Cheney does kinda look like that old Darth with his helmet off (but I digress).

Mick, the last I heard this was still a democracy and, while the east and west coasters all ride in Prius’ and think that spreading my wealth around is a great idea, there is still a small matter of the rest of the god damn country!  Now, I know full well that with your exceedingly high intellect, you are of course, right, and that the gap-toothed Nascar crowd has run us face first into a black fucking hole.  However, there are a lot of us—I mean ‘them.’ So fear not, our dim-witted children will all sit around the fire to listen to your rants, er, I-mean escapades for years to come.

As far as the reasons why we got attacked, I have an idea. Why don’t you go over there and ask them. That’s it.  Bring your pen, pile all of your liberal friends into the Prius…bring the fucking Wal-Mart Midgets for all I care!  I’m sure Al-Qaeda will tell you that they really don’t hate us for: our freedom, our way of life, our dancing, our singing, our movies, our fair treatment of women.  I’m sure they’ll tell you it’s really all about Bush and the neo cons. Yeah, that’s it—that’s the ticket, yeah, it’s the neo cons, see…

Let me know how that trip works out.

Bush lost, get over it.

Yours Unruly


Your comment about socialism has yet to be proven.  Currently Obama’s tax plan is more in line with Reagan that Lennon, or Marx.   When we shift from captilism to super captililsm tax breaks is hardly communism.  Making imaginary paper money to bail out wall street, Detroit, and Citibank, may well be much closer to communism, that Reagonomics. 

CRANK MANIFESTO On Driving and Cars

The Crank

Driving. Yes, driving.  To all you multi-tasking mongrels—there are no cup holders, cell phone holders, or ashtrays in German cars for a reason. Driving is a full time job! You fudge packers can’t walk and jerk off at the same time, and you expect us to believe you can talk on the phone, text, smoke, drink, and check your atrocious Alice Cooper makeup in the mirror at the same time? Douche bags! Try driving! You get to go places and arrive intact!

See that stick to the left…right behind the steering wheel? If you push that stick down before turning left, the rest of us road-ragers-waiting-to-happen (RRWTH) will know what the fuck it is you’re about to do! Think of it! We won’t have to rely on E.S.P., remote viewing, or Travel Ouji to know what the hell you’re up to. Blood and makeup don’t mix, unless you are Alice Cooper. Every time I see someone crossing three lanes in high speed traffic to exit without using a directional (aka, the Arizona Exit), I want to cut’em off, drop their pants, duct tape them bent over to their hood, and stick the blinker stick up their ass, in the middle of the middle lane. Ah, but to dream…

Texting? Are you kidding? Anyone caught texting while driving should be bike-ridden forever. But they should be allowed (under certain circumstances) to text friends from their jail cell.  Oh yeah, and they should be prevented from having children. The recent train wreck in Caaleefawniya was caused by a short-bus special, texting at the helm.  When my mother didn’t like how I was driving, she would stand up (yes, she was that short) and smack me in the back of the head. We should all test our drivers-to-be with similarly violent teachers in the back seat.  We could start off the course by asking them to text a friend as we pull into traffic…then SMACK.  Rinse, lather, repeat.

Alternatively, in order to catch these wanna-be multi-taskers run amuck (WBMRA), we could all pack paintball guns.  We could fire at those who fail to use that helpful stick behind the steering wheel. After firing, simply call the local P.D. and have them watch for the black Nissan with the yellow splotched rear fender.

In addition to how people drive (or how they attempt to drive while texting missives about their lives to their friends), I have a few words on what people drive. If you own a four-door four-wheel-drive pickup with, say, a twelve inch lift, and do not need it to get to an inaccessible workplace, well, you are a dork. Your truck stopped being a truck the moment your modifications prevented anything from ever being placed into its bed—because it’s SIX fucking FEET off the ground! And, if you did manage, you’d have to drive only in straight lines for fear of top-heavy overturn (THO). Ah, but you have impressed your like-minded idiot friends, haven’t you?  A real man you are now!  It makes it all worth the buckboard ride, the catastrophic handling, and wonderful gas mileage. Yes, and those 36” wheels providing increased unsprung weight won’t help.  At $4.00 plus a gallon, you must feel just like the dipstick that you’ve become.

Maybe you’ve contemplated giving your wife the old Silverado for daily use (not a sexual metaphor) and driving her rolling garbage-receptacle Hyundai to work for the fuel efficiency. One word…DON’T!  Case in point: “Oh honey, there is some red light thingy on the dash. Been on for about a week. Something about oil or something. Will you fix it?” Remember where we bought the car?  Well, next time a little light flashes or noise sounds…TAKE IT THERE! It’s just like when you tell me that the “Laundry faerie” doesn’t clean our clothes; well, the fucking “Car Faerie” doesn’t keep us trucking either. Oh yeah, and there is a reason your husbands want to do the driving. Your driving scares the living shit out of us. I have many shorts that couldn’t stand the strain. And that, coming from men who regularly suspend all common sense on the road, is saying a lot.

If you are female and want to drink coffee in your car, you are hereby forbidden to use anything except sippy cups. You all are way too fucking slovenly for an adult cup. Just check your seats, cup holder and front carpets. See?  Listen, for about 10 bucks, you can have the fucking car cleaned in and out. Once a month, like your period. Next time you wake up and look at that methane factory sleeping next to you and think of only sharp knives, say to yourself “It must be time to go to the car wash.”

At the opposite end of the silly car spectrum are those little toy cars. To all those asshole drivers of little mini-me rice burners everywhere: Graduate to a “real vehicle”. Those toys with fartcan exhaust are cute for about a minute. If you try bringing me and my Ram (short bed, regular cab, two wheel drive, unlifted, no carpet, no fucking Hemi, real usable truck) to a screeching halt, I will roll over you like a speed bump. (Ram fartcan joke omitted by the FCC).  At the very least, your decapitated gourd will anoint my hood like the Flying Lady on a Rolls-Royce radiator.

Why spend mucho dollars squeezing 300 horsepower out of a 4 cylinder when (now hit yourself in the forehead) you coulda had a V8!  Jerks. When you start pushing 250 + hp out of a 2 liter, your gas mileage plummets to Hummerville. You may like the old Honda now, but try sliding your fat 40+ year old ass into that Civic.

The silly car gamut doesn’t run just from the giant tires to the matchbox toy cars. You know what I love; it’s those rolling mid-life crises with little hair flipping around those topless sports cars…with their Donald Trump lacquered comb-over standing straight up as a rooster-hawk. Dorks.

One day in ’96, my wife and I spotted a two year old Caddy Sedan DeVille at a local stealership. We took it for test drive.  When we returned, I asked her, “Well, what do you think?” Her answer was “It’s the fattest-ass, most ostentatious automobile I’ve ever encountered,” and I said “Ok, but can I have it?” I drove that big bastard 12 years and 184 thousand miles. Had N.Y. plates that read “CRUZSHIP”. Passed trucks stuck in the snow, beat almost everything at the light. Near 300 horse, massive torque, and front wheel drive. Once, when picking out a Christmas tree, I noticed everyone else’s jumbo SUVs. Some were trying to stuff the trees inside without tearing the leather.  Others planned tying it to the roof…without scratching the paint. Lots of heated discussions ensued between cursing husbands, bitching wives, and crying children.  I laughed aloud and as they all turned I pushed the remote button for the trunk. As I gazed into the standard issue “six-body trunk” (the Meadowland special), I tossed the seven-foot Frazier Fir inside diagonally and closed the lid.  I grinned ear to ear.  All this, a ride like a magic carpet, and 25 mpg! Mid 90’s Caddies—the best kept secret in motoring.  Uh oh, what the fff… I sure hope that was a speed bump.