Betch ya thought this was going to be a Crank rant on the passage of the healthcare Obamanation. WRONG! That will come later, fer sure, wink wink-nudge nudge. No, my dysfunctional and disillusioned little friends, this rant is all about the automobile, a topic I know considerably more about than healthcare. If I was a healthy sort, I guess I would know more about what aids longevity vs. shortgevity. (Hint: the stuff in my fridge promotes the latter.) My last attempt, The Southwest Twinkie diet plan, may not have helped, but thanks to industrial strength preservatives, I will decompose even slower than King Tut (which is certainly a victory of sorts). You see, having misread the “do this and live a long life” book my whole life, I shouldn’t comment about healthcare, with the exception of the pharmacological side. I have majored in ‘what prolongs one’s life in spite of one’s self,’ or the Pill and Suspension of Dis-be-life.
I was watching the latest episode of my favorite religious program on BBC America, Top Gear, wherein Lord Clarkson was starting his review of the newest version of the Aston Martin Vantage. The typical sideways-drifting, screaming rubber, laughing Clarkson was a no-show for this particular episode. He just drove the car to the backdrop of a soothing wistful type music in the background. He called the car “Wonderful. Spectacular. Unbelievable.” Then he said something that surprised me. He said, “I never liked test driving cars… I always wanted to be a lumberjack.” OK, not really, I just get python flashbacks now and again.
Clarkson believes the Aston Martin Vantage marks, not the beginning of a new glorious car, but the end of an era. The end of all that is “Car.” With the ever present Orwellian photo radar zombie citizen fukkers, and the attacks from the environ-MENTAL-ists, he fears all we know and love about cars is about to come crashing down like so much water-damaged ceiling. He was sad and, more than that, he made me sad…
I don’t like being sad. I take copious amounts of expensive medications so as not to be sad. Bastard.
It started me thinking, which Herr Zano will tell you is probably a bad thing, but here it goes:
I’m sorry, but how do you marry a 305 horsepower V6, while being fast, and “clean” and “friendly to Mother Oit”? Enters the hopped up 4 banger. Well, Fuggedeboudit. The 4 bangers, when hopped up, sound like so many Germans on Oktoberfest eve after all the beer and bratwurst. Basically, they sound like farts. Not cool, not powerful, not evil, just, well…gaseous. The V6s, while less ob-noxious, sound like so many angry UPS trucks in a tunnel. I realized this when taking little sister Zano truck shopping recently. We tested the Chevy V6 and Some Jeeps with 4s. It’s as if the clouds parted and someone, possibly God, said, “I could have had a V8!”
It was when we got into the Hemi Dodge Ram, with optional “Performance Exhaust,” that I realized just how good a well-tuned, well-piped V8 sounds. Glorious, just glorious. As sister Zano left considerable layers of new tire at the stop sign in front of the dealer, it became apparent: it’s about the V8…it always has been. It also occurred to me that sister Zano, just maybe, was a closet gear head, as my head just bobbed around like Stevie Wonder’s, with my eyes closed, reveling in that emanating sound…the good noise.
Less will NEVER be more. Less will NEVER do. It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I’m mad as hell, and not going to take it anymore. You can’t handle the truth, and we’re not going to take it, and several other quotes Winslow probably omitted.
You will pry my hemi from my cold dead hands, or at least my wife will. I will go out with my pedal to the proverbial metal, tires smokin’, with a sound that will surely set off all the car alarms within a four-block radius. And a cavernous smile on my Cranky mug.
I am V8! I will live!
As I was starting to write this, while listening to Spike TV’s Sunday morning car shows, I heard what may be a stay of execution for the big V8.
Chevrolet is working on a Caalifawn-ia emissions 2011 regulation-friendly 450 horsepower V8.
Suddenly two lights appeared at the end of the long dark tunnel and, thankfully, not the tunnel that sounded like the UPS farts. Know Hemi…Know hope. Hope even I can believe in.
DRILL BABY DRILL
DAS CRANK
