One day I was doing some research on convertibles to write an article on the Saturn Sky. After milling through various car reviews, which was getting kind of boring. I ran across one of the funniest articles I had ever read! The anonymous author of this article was commenting on his experience driving a convertible for the first time. (In fact it was a rental convertible.)
In spite the articles foul language, which I bleeped out. This guy is hysterical. Check it out below and let me know what you think!
Just like anger turns Bruce Banner into the Incredible Hulk and alcohol turns Mel Gibson into a ragin’ racist, I recently found out that driving a convertible turns me into an *&^hole.
Although thankfully it didn’t turn me into a super punk *&%hole, like Simon Cowell is with tone deaf American Idol hopefuls.
I didn’t choose the convertible, it chose me, thanks to the free upgrade courtesy of Budget Rent a Car. It was the first time I’ve ever driven a convertible, and it wasn’t just any old convertible, it was a RED Ford Mustang. I don’t know about you, but I think a red Ford Mustang convertible is a total chick magnet, although not so much when I’m driving it and definitely doesn’t even come close to attracting the women as effectively as either Brad Pitt or George Clooney in a loincloth, or if they’re a lesbian, Angelina Jolie in a loincloth.
The only other memory I have with a convertible was the time when I was with an ex-girlfriend in high school and we threw a couple of live crabs onto the back seat of a tourist’s convertible who conveniently left their top down while shopping. I guess even being around a convertible will turn me into a punk.
Anyway, once I placed myself into the driver’s seat of the convertible, I instantly had the urge to be an *%#hole. As I revved the engine, it sounded like it had the enough power under the hood to easily make up for my physical inadequacies and insecurities, like most *%@holes have.
I thought about using that power to burn rubber in the rental car parking lot, which would’ve caused a cloud of smoke and an aromatic “%@#* you” in the scent of burnt rubber, but I couldn’t do it because my car had an automatic transmission, which makes it kind of hard to burn rubber. Although, even if it did have a manual transmission, just like my *%@# when I’m in bed with a woman, I wouldn’t know how to use it.
Since I couldn’t burn rubber, the next #@%hole-ish thing I wanted to do was pick up chicks and finally be able to use the pick up lines, “Hey baby, I just put the top down on my ride, but now I’d like to put your top down” or “Hey cutie, how’d you like to ride something red, smooth, and fast, but I’m not talking about my car.”
Unfortunately, after driving around for a little bit, it seemed like all the chicks were at work, which reminded me the reason why I needed a rental car in the first place, because had to travel to another rock in the middle of the Pacific Ocean for my job. My destination was only a few miles away from the airport, but because in the convertible I’m an @*#hole, it felt good to take a little detour so that I could be stylin’ AND profilin’.
As I drove with the top down, my sunglasses on, and a smug look on my face, I wanted to play some slammin’ music that would make everyone look in my direction and see how much of a bad*%@ I was, but unfortunately I only had my Slow Jamz CD with me.
Even my hair was being a punk and wasn’t taking s*%# from no one. My stiff gelled hair did not waver as the wind tried to blow them down like the big bad wolf facing the pig’s house made of bricks. The wind huffed and puffed but could not bring my Viagra hard hair down since I use enough gel in my hair to make it meet U.S. Consumer Products Safety Commission standards for bike helmets.
Sure driving a convertible turns me into an *#@hole, but there are some positive things about driving one, like not needing to use the air conditioner, being able to let the sun’s rays tickle my skin, and possibly being able to drive around Miss (insert beauty pageant name) in a parade.
