I've Got Ways to Make You Sorry (for reading this)

The Bugatti Veyron was not at the Detroit Autoshow. I repeat, NOT at the biggest autoshow in the known universe tha hood. How am I supposed to sexually assault an automobile if it won't even come within a continent of me? Holler when you figure that one out, 'cause I'd really like to know.

Some of you are shaking your heads right now for the wrong reason. Others, those who we might call "in the know," are shaking their heads because I called the Veyron an automobile. True, it probably does deserve a better word, but even the term "super-car" isn't really fitting. Lots of things are "supercars." But all of these other supposedly "super" inanimate objects failed to be sexually assaulted by me. Well, I suppose the Veryon failed as well. But not for lack of trying.

The truth is, I hate writing this as much as you hate reading it. I've never really been a sympathizer to that particular crowd who gets off on cars. Sure, I've seen some Austin Martins or a Z-4 or some fighter jets or something that got me a little turned on, I've even described certain cars as "sexy," but I've always stood a few arm's length from erotic-fanaticism (a word I thought I'd never type). I have friends who can give you detailed model progressions of the Audi A-6 all the way back to the fucking stoneage. I don't do that. Maybe it's because these people plan on being what we might call "successful" and so think that this knowledge may become relevant in a potential purchase. I don't. All I know is this: The Bugatti Veyron, with a top speed of roughly 253 mph, is currently the fastest production car on any terrestrial planet we know of. The McLaren F-1, with a top speed of 242 mph, is the former "pan-terra-champion," as it were. You could start the two machines side by side, allow the F-1 to reach a speed of 120 mph before even hitting the gas on the Bugatti, and the Veyron would beat the McLaren to 200 mph.

That's all I'm sayin'.



Aside from all that aforementioned bunk, the Autoshow was pretty cool. There were some fun cars and we didn't get hassled by any scary street people. Earlier in week some cool stuff happened as well. Tuesday evening saw the return of the Toaster to The Deuce and, more specifically, to The Deuce's bars. We (Heather, Kyle, Tom, Anna, Aaron, Brian) started out at the Brown Jug where we were shortly rewarded with free booze. If you're interested in what true fear looks like then you should have seen Heather's face moments after the words "I'm buying" escaped her lips and eight wild eyes swung around and pinned her to the back of her seat with a look that staggered drunkenly between desperation, confusion, and lust. After some of the normal antics, including the crude illustration of Kyle's feline predation habits on any/all available CCA Strategies business cards, we were off to Charlie's and, ultimately, Tom's apt where we would indulge our latest tradition, the Pizza House cinnamon sticks orgy. The "orgy" part of that equation is less about the gettin' down than it is about moaning euphorically while eating more-delicious-than-should-be-legal breadsticks, which is a little lame and wrong for sure, but hey, we can't all be winners now can we? In any case, it was a good night, so hooray.

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