So, a work buddy has his bachelor party last night. It was fun. Good times indeed (especially when someone threw up during the first game whirlyball and one of our cohorts didn’t make it past the first two hours because he pounded down a fifth of Jameson in the first 45 minutes and pucked buckets in the bed of his truck), but this tale isn’t about that stuff or the drunken blowjobs in the party bus (and then the strippers came on board…rimshot). No. This story, my faithful readers, is about a car.
One of the partygoers is a writer for Car & Driver. So he’s test driving this Bentley coupe. So we hear about it and check it out. The hood is up, the doors are open and we’re inspecting every nook and cranny. It’s got 15 inch brakes (the largest manufactured brakes in a car) and a surprisingly small trunk, but one monster of an engine. So I sit down in it and then it happens.
I farted in it.
Oh, the leather was nice, and it had a push-button start, but again, I digress. I farted in a $350,000 car. Yes. It’s one of my proudest moments. There were only 300 of these fine vehicles made. Hand-crafted pieces of machinery that can’t hold more than two sets of golf clubs (maybe) and, according to the writer, “handles like a train” that are the playthings of rich sheiks in Bahrain and I tore ass in it. Yes, some time in the recent future, this car might be in some rich person’s auto-harem and they might plop down in it and wrap their hands around the steering wheel and smile as they reflect upon how their stocks are doing and how well life has treated them…
…and the they’ll inhale my ass.
Something just seems…right about this. My father should be proud. I struck a blow for the proletariat.
