Cars. You know I love them. Someone once described my stupid journal as a constant rotation of little car pictures. Well, I’ve fallen off for a while, so it’s time to get back on board the wee car photos angle. The following little car pictures depict cars that I want, but really have no business getting. I mean, seriously no business. If I had any of these, I wouldn’t even make it back to my house from the dealership. I’d make it maybe half of the way before exploding in a fiery pinwheel of death, and I would have left a wake of other cars’ smoldering hulks and charred human corpses, my own among them.
Why I Want One: To crush my enemies, see them driven before me, and to hear the lamentations of the women.
I’m not normally a big truck dude. Other people can’t see around them on the road, and they’re typically more than a bit hick. On the other hand, I’ve always harbored love for one truck at any given time. For a long time, it was the Dodge Ram. Then for a year it was the redesigned F-150. Now it’s the Titan. Straight up, you don’t fuck with a vehicle called a Titan. It will smash you beneath its treads and never know the difference. Five-point-six liters of displacement. Three hundred and five horsepower. Three hundred and seventy-nine foot-pounds of torque. It’s a civilian-ready tank, and brother, I hear its clarion call.
Dodge Magnum RT
Why I Want One: Planned conversion to Mad Max mode during imaginary post-holocaust situation.
Oh, Christ, would I be trouble in this thing. It reinvents the “station wagon” archetype as the “death-dealing station wagon” archetype. In my mind, I’m sliding into a four-lane, 180-degree drift, with the steering wheel in one hand and the other waving a large-caliber revolver out the window at some, um, enemies. Who used to be behind me, but then I spun that shit around and now it’s time to die. Say hello to my little friend. The cargo area is full of dead hookers, cans of gasoline and, like, some nine-year-old girl who is mute but for some reason holds the future of society in her hands. I’m, like, an anti-hero.
Audi RS6 Plus
Why I Want One: It has no reason to exist.
Four hundred and eighty horsepower. What the hell does any sane human being need with 480 horsepower? Nothing, that’s what. As such, I volunteer to become the sin-eater, absolving humanity of the temptations posed by this monster. It’s subtle as hell, too, looking for all the world like an A6 until you peep the 18-inch wheels. Some punk-ass in an M5 pulls up to the stoplight and acts all bad, and he’s left picking his teeth out of the asphalt with broken fingers. I guess I’d better be honest — if I had this car, I’d become a supervillain instead of a sin-eater.
Mercedes-Benz AMG E55
Why I Want One: To chase RS6s.
Ridiculous. Blasting down the tollway, Giorgio Moroder firing out the open windows, some asshole supervillain in an RS6 Plus ahead of me who needs to learn the score. The E55 won’t take the RS6 flat, but that’s why I want it — I have to be a better driver to accommodate the subtle degree of performance by which the Audi exceeds the Benz. Dude thinks he’s in the clear when BAM! Rival Teutonic justice slides out of his rear-view vision and into the lane next to him. A look of terror crosses his face; the white of his eyes become fully visible around his pupils. A single drop of sweat trickles down his brow. Down a gear, slipstream, and he’s spun. I win.
Why I Want One: Diagnosed as psychotic.
Sweet Zombie Jesus, look at this thing. Some maniac actually built this beaster and wants to use it to defeat the single-wheeled-vehicle land speed record. Read up on it if you don’t believe me. (Of course it’s some Burning Man loon.) Let’s see: Catastrophic? Check. Obvious risk to life and limb? Check. Nothing good can come of it? Check. Sign me up.