I drive a Mustang. This has certain disadvantages. Chief among them is the fact that every poser with anime hair carrying fifty pounds of face piercings in their decal-powered Honda Civic wants to drag race me. Now, I’m perfectly wiling to publically humiliate these little wannabes, but the highway I live on is heavily patrolled, and mommy and daddy won’t be paying my ticket. So I just ignore the little wankers.
But today, I ran into a special breed of penile inadequacy. I was gassing up my car, getting ready for the work week. Suddenly, I hear someone revving an engine. I look over to see two white kids, who look to be about 12, covered in Tommy and wearing about $500 in gold chains each. And they want me to notice their car.
Why, I can’t imagine. I don’t really need my attention called to a Mazda 6, running a loud ass muffler but otherwise stock. I especially can stand to ignore one which has parts falling off it while it isn’t even running. Since I’m showing my lack of impressedness (actually, I was giggling like a schoolgirl), one of these cockless wonders decides he’d better “take it to the next level.” And the next thing I hear is
“Yo, G, how you like ma pimpin wheels!??!?! Better than you old piece a shit, huh?”
Once, again, white teenager. Tommy. Gold chains. Calling someone “G” in the 21st century. At this point, I begin to contemplate Grand Theft Auto-ing the little punk, but manage to contain my homicidal tendencies. What I do do (hehe), however, is to roll down my window on the way out of the station so I can point and laugh at these two.
So as I’m idling up to do a U-turn, I hear what sounds like a large meteor strike behind me. As I check the mirror, I realize it’s the Mazda with the “trick” (giggle) muffler. The putz is standing on the gas, redlining his car. In a mere 10 seconds, he has reached 20 miles an hour and covered the half-block seperating us. And as luck would have it, this is exactly the time a nice, long opening in traffic comes along.
So, I can now say without a doubt the putzii in question know what “pimpin wheels” are. I can say this, because I slowly pulled through, waited for them to “take off,” then lit off my 302 V8 and saw them just vanishing in the distance through my mirror as I pulled into my apartment a mile down the road. Still not as good a feeling as drinking mead from their empty skulls, but it’s a start.