“That’s right, shit-for-brains, “R” is for reverse. Now back up already!” I have a bad habit of using vulgar language in the privacy of my car, and today I was indulging that particular peccadillo even more than usual. With a wallet full of cash, a full tank of gas and three hours to get all my Christmas shopping done before the Crimson Tide kick-off at 3 p.m., I was ambivalent-in-the-moment as I commenced the painful, yearly ritual. “Yeah Buddy, move it,” I said, noting that the vehicle exiting the parking space was a European looking 16.4 cylinder-torque-seeking Black and Blue Bugatti sporting an 8-liter engine with a quad-turbocharged delivery system smoothed out by 10 inter-coolers Sport Car-marvel-of-modern technology and capable of screaming toward a top speed of Mach 10. It had an acceleration rate of 0-60 in 1 point zero seconds, compared to my SmartCar fortwo 2-seater with an acceleration rate of 0-60 in 18.0 seconds, according to my Swatch. So what if the asshole had a cool car! I thought he was taking too long to remove it from my potential parking spot. I politely beeped my horn, watching as the Co2 exhaust puffed with gusto from the shiny chrome holes discretely emitting their fumes into the grey December day. Did I mention the car was dark blue? The last thing I remember (as I was wondering how the vehicle could possibly have .4 of a cylinder) was the sensation of my little car/world spinning at a fantastic rate of speed close to Mach 3: I was dead before the asphalt re-solidified above my 6-guage aluminum-alloy roof, which had smothered me after my SmartCar fortwo went into a tailspin digging a hole 5 feet deep.
“Damn-it-all to hell and back,” said Evil Editor as he exited the Bugatti. “God-damn-WTF-MF, I did it again!” he moaned, retrieving the crumpled air-foil (programmed to engage at speeds above 50 mph) that spanned the pit like a twisted St. Louis Arch.