I've got five words for this fucktard: 1983 Cadillac Coupe de Ville.A license plate doesn't make you special
...
When someone throws on a turn signal indicating he wants to break into traffic, in most circumstances there is no obligation to give way. If a vehicle sports one of those ironically misguided fish-eating-the-fish-with-feet, forget it. If it has the "Coexist" sticker with all those different religious symbols for letters, well, then I'll make some
room.
I assume people of all political persuasions follow similar driving maxims, even if subconsciously. One of the reasons to wear politics and religion on the sleeve -- or in this case the bumper -- is to evoke a reaction. Perhaps if enough motorists refused to yield to SUVs, their owners might reconsider their automotive choice.
I bought this car after two major accidents (not my fault) inside of 8 months. Four DAYS before my wedding, a 17 year old kid in a Honda Civic came screaming out of a side street and broadsided my Plymouth Sundance (driver's side, natch). Spent six months in physical therapy; was doped up on prescription-strength Naproxen for the wedding and honeymoon; basically took a big chunk out of my life. Then, eight months later, some dipshit in a Ford Explorer thought his rear ABS meant he could stop in 20' at 60 MPH in a rainstorm (he couldn't) and wound up rear-ending my Toyota van with enough force to blow out the back window like you see in the movies and crushed the rear end in about a foot and a half.
So, after this, I took the insurance money from the Toyota and went looking for the biggest, meanest, heaviest chunk of Detroit steel I could find. It came down to the Caddy above and a 1974 Lincoln Town Car, the Caddy winning because it was cheaper.
This car was, I don't know, 40 or 50 feet long and had to have weighed at least 70 or 80 tons. It had the anemic Cadillac 4.1L V8, which meant that 0-60 times were measured via calendar; however the damn thing got 22-24 MPG. It also had a 25 gallon gas tank, which meant that it had well over a 500 mile range on a single tank of gas. And speaking of tank, it pretty much defined the fucking genre, 'K?
Walk a little further with me down Amnesia Lane. I'm on the MA pike in the Caddy, following a buddy of mine at about warp 7. I've got the Caddy cranked up to about 90 or so, when this little ricer wannabe dipshit in a fucking Civic decides to move into the fast lane at a blistering 67 MPH. I came up on him so fast, blaring the horn and flashing my headlights because there was no way on G-d's Green Earth I was going to stop before turning him and his car into vehicular purée, that he literally dove through the right lane, off the shoulder, and halfway down the embankment out of pure, raw, unadulterated fear.
He saw that the bell was not only tolling for his stupid ass, but Quasimodo was yelling "Haw Haw" like Nelson from "The Simpsons". He must have realized that, upon his immediate fiery death, that Saint Peter would have bitch-slapped him for being so fucking stupid as to cut off a 1983 Cadillac Coupe de Ville in a Honda fucking Civic...
Now, what does this have to do with Christian Trejbal? Well, not much, except for me to wish that I still had the ol' Caddy. 'Cuz I would gladly pay an insurance surcharge for the chance, nay, the honor, of hitting Christian's poseur-mobile Prius with the Cadillac hard enough to send him back in fucking time. I'd wear that Prius on the grill of my Coupe de Ville like a junebug on the windshield of a Peterbuilt.
Man... Just the thought of 80 tons of Detroit steel turning a limp-wrist liberal poseur into cubist art gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling inside.
Now, don't get me wrong. I don't wish Mr. Trejbal ill...
Who the fuck do I think I'm kidding? I hope he cuts off a semi with bad brakes and an irritated truck driver with implacable hemorrhoids...
(Tip 'o' the keyboard to the South Park Pundit, who I really need to add to the ol' blogroll...)
6 comments:
And for those of us who rode in that mighty Caddy ... on the way to break up a bar fight at TGIFridays's... those were good times, good times...
One of my high school guidance counselors [and wrestling coach] had this beat up old pick-up truck he'd use for the annual trip to Manhattan.
I think beneath the bondo and primer it was a lovely shade of rusted baby blue.
Even the NYC taxis feared him.
Jay,
My "caddy" was a 1974 Old Delta 88 with the Rocket-350. That sucker was big, heavy, fast, but sucked gas like a $20 hooker sucks #$(*&@#($& during fleet-week. Still miss that car.
I learned to drive on a 69 Mercury Marquis...Ford's car of majorly boatlike proportions. Of course back then - everyone drove those kind of cars. (and our other car was a Comet... * feel so old *)
I used to think that Chicago had bad drivers... then I moved here. It's as if no one in this state has ever heard of "rules of the road". They are, hands down, the worst drivers I've ever seen. They stop, start, turn, and make just about every other maneuver in an illegal manner. They don't look when changing lanes, they enter a 65mph highway at 25-30mph
Basically I expect to have a major accident at any time because some idiot never figured out what a stop sign means.
Oh blast - the above anonymous comment is mine... damn blogger - it hates me when I hit tab...
Right-on! Mine was a light yellowish-cream '64 Barracuda with a slant-six and the big arched back-glass. The license-plate was "Valcuda" because of that Valiant lineage, but it always sounded like Dracula to me. Serious Detroit-iron, if the trunk lid was up only three inches and you dropped it, it locked solid with a bang. Took an old lady in a Taurus station-wagon flying through a red light to finally down the old beast, broke the front axle and pushed me across three lanes while putting a deep crease down the whole driver's side. I got out totally fine and said to the stunned old lady at the wheel, "You know that you had a red left-turn light, don't you?" Good old Valcuda.
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