The Car

It's the kind of car that makes you think "Yeah, I can make that" right before you dart in front of a train yelling YEEEEEEEEE HAAAWWWWW like you are Bo Duke. It's the kind of car that other people see and think "He's trying to make up for a lack of potential below the equator." It's the kind of car where you know what other people are thinking and your reply is "So what, look at my car, you still want some of this." And you do.

When the good lord divided up the workload for my brother and I, he decided on a very different skill set for both of us. He made me very handy, able to tinker with things and put them back together. I'm reliable, steady and dependable. Occasionally funny with a lucky streak. However, that was a the cost of me not being able to dress myself or my daughter in anything more appropriate than a black garbage bag and flip flops. It turns out that pajama tops are not appropriate day wear for school. In my defense, I thought it was just a T-shirt until my wife confirmed to me that it wasn't which explains why the teachers and other parents were looking at me.

My brother on the other hand can dress himself quiet well. Granted, if he's putting up a shelf the whole wall will come down but dammit if the guy doesn't look good while he's doing it. He's always dressed better than me, he always looked more put together than me, he combs his hair and uses product. I use a bar of generic soap.

He's got style and this is his little sports car I'm driving.

I would never buy this. Mainly because a guy of my size has a hard time getting out of bucket seats without being properly greased up first. My mind is usually filled with dreams of a mini-van with doors that open with a push of a button and stain resistant carpets. I 'm not usually concerned if my car can do 0 to 60 in 2.3 seconds. I have no idea if that is even fast but it sounded good so I put it in there.

I stopped by my brother's place after my 8 hour drive to my fantasy football draft. I was in my SUV decked out in shorts and my hat. Very unassuming and what I call the professional slacker look. I seem to pull this off quite well. After talking for a bit he had an idea. Why not impress the other owners when I show up at the draft. Why not intimidate them just a tad with my awesomeness. How about I actually zip up my pants before I go out in public. These were just a few of his suggestions. We went out to his little sports car.

I thought about it for 2.3 seconds.

This will give you an idea of my experience level with these types of cars:

"Where's the trunk?" I asked.

I think he's still laughing because apparently convertible sports cars don't have a trunk. And with no back seats I have no idea where you would put a booster chair. And it also appears that beverages are not allowed as there are no cup holders. Cocaine and strippers seem fine to fit in these types of cars but not hiking packs.

I tried to start the car with no luck. I looked around trying to decipher what the problem is. That's when he told me it's a stick shift and the clutch needed to be pushed in. I haven't driven a stick since I've had kids. I found that it's much easier to defend myself from flying goldfish crackers with one arm free. I quickly corrected my mistake and after a lot more laughing got on my way.

In style.

Screw convenience. I lost all thoughts of minivans and large trunk space by the time I hit the highway. A lot of people like the feeling of the wind in their hair. It feels even better on a bald scalp. The only time in my life that I haven't been bitter about going bald early.

I was pushing 90, I had to be. The wind was roaring and the radio was pumped to Judus Priest's "Breaking the Law". Forget the All American straight shooter bit that I was, embrace the devil may care rule breaker that I had become. I looked down at the speedometer and I was doing just shy of 50.

So I'm still a wussy but it's ok, look at the car I'm driving.

I pulled up to a stoplight after my exit. Next to me was a hottie in a generic sedan. She looked over to check out the car. Before I could help myself and completely involuntary, I gave her a head nod and a smile. Then I took off because I have no idea what the hell I just did or why I did it. This is totally not me, I spit on people who act like this. I constantly reassure myself that the universe is fair by telling myself that those people get beat up by people like me. Now I have to punch myself because apparently the car makes you forget just who the hell you are. It looks like I lost my good sense by the time I shifted into second gear. I have no idea why I did this and completely realize that I look like an ass. But I just couldn't help it.

Then the euphoria hit. You just don't care when you drive a car like this. This is the freedom that a sports car brings you. It justifies every bad decision you make, have made or will ever make. You have a memory span of 2.3 seconds