After seeing the video that GM put into its official debut of the CTS-V coupe at the Detroit auto show this past week, I feel I must comment on GM’s decision to make such a vehicle and how it relates to how the world views the U.S. and even, perhaps more importantly, how we view ourselves. Wow, that’s about the longest single cognitive thought I’ve had in a year, whew. Can we break?
Let’s start with the car itself. Short as a beercan and just as wide with 556 horsepower. ‘nuff said. A true pocket-sized fat-assed Caddy with the heart of a Corvette ZR-1. I can hear the faint sounds of Tim Allen going ar-ar-ar-ar. Oh yeah…handling like its glued to the fucking road, ear ringing quiet, all the latest gadgets at your beck and call, posh leather seats made for 4x wide Uhmurcun asses, all with a look that says, “Excuse me, mame, would you be so kind as to get your POS excuse for an automobile the hell out of my way?”
The video in question reveals that the “guys” at GM, (read my Lord Lutz article) are very aware that this car will win no awards at the next “Euro-Green-Socialist” conference (EGS). You will not see any bearded leftist professors driving one to the local internet café. Toyota, Volvo and Subaru have nothing to worry about. They can keep all the socially responsible people to themselves—makes me want to SAAB just thinking about it. The video shows things that happen to the world when Mother Nature’s Depends ride WAY up her droopy old ass. Storms, Hurricanes, atom bombs, lightning bolts and the Sun combined with slow motion power slides make the viewer quite aware that this ain’t no fucking Prius (which, incidentally, is the phrase that adorns my bumper).
No. While these car seats are made for wide asses, Al “welcome to the meltdown” Gore’s corpulent posterior ain’t one of them. This car is about going behind the local Wal-Mart—with a slight buzz, your borderline imbecilic but foxxy girlfriend at your side—at night with the sole purpose to do endless donuts while you hang your head out the widow…alternately drooling on your door and cackling devilishly while getting high on the smell of burning rubber. It’s about telling the rest of the world to fuck-off. It’s a car-guy’s car. It makes no excuses for its behavior, like me. Let our CEO handle the lawsuits, right Winslow? It’s like the kid next door who always seems to be running over your perfectly groomed lawn on his quad. It’s almost as if he knows he’s wrong, and that’s why he does it. Seeing the future for us car guys is very bleak, but I do decree that we are not going down without fucking things up as much as we can for the “norms” on the way out (that’s my other bumper sticker—it needs some editing).
Why, you ask, do we need to do this? I am reminded of a story I once heard about a scorpion that needed to get across a river. He saw a swan coming by and called her over. He tells the swan that he needs to get across the river, and would she mind giving him a lift. The swan asks the scorpion “what is going to stop you from stinging me?” The scorpion relays the fact that if he stings her while they are in route, she will die, and he will drown, so it would be stupid for him to do that. She agrees, and lets the scorpion on her back, and starts acros the river. About halfway across, she feels him sting her. She turns her head around and asks him” Why have you done this?” His answer is similar to my view of cars. “I am a scorpion. It’s what I do.”
I am, and will forever be, a car guy. It’s what I do.
Note to Mother Nature: Time to change your shorts granny, we’re not done yet and…er, sorry about those shrubs, Norm.
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