Fast Care = Fast Women?
I was driving home from work last night on a noticeably open and bare stretch of road when a pair of violet headlights appeared far in the horizon of my rearview mirror. In a blink the car went from far to near, like Grover teaching distance on Sesame Street. I wondered what kind of car would be going from nowhere to up my ass in 2 seconds on this piece of blacktop, and more so, what kind of person was driving it. They made no attempt to pass, but seemed content to shine their low purple lights underneath my Explorer as they tickled the peachfuzz on its bumper.
Finally, I decided to move to the right lane, which was obviously empty, and let them pass. It was a Lamborginhi. I assume that the makers and aficionados of such a fine machine hope that the mere sight of it would send the viewer into a state of respect and awe, but not me. All I could associate with a fast and fancy sports car so out of place was cocaine and a small penis. Peering through the night into the tinted windows I looked closely for signs of a mullet or the reflection from a white sportscoat. I saw neither. The car froze beside me for a moment and then as fast as it appeared, it was gone. I watched the lights fade in front of me, knowing what a hurry they must be in to get home, relax, and finally take that itchy sock out of their pants.