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Posts Tagged ‘muscle cars’

5 cars i’d have sex with

Todd has his helicopter porn, I have my cars.

1. 70 Chevelle SS

Mine would be in black, but you get the idea. That right there, ladies and gentlemen, is the ultimate in automobiles. It’s the car I’ve been dreaming about since I first got my license back in the dark ages, and the car I will some day own. Mark my words. That’s not just any muscle car, kids. That is a piece of art. You know how some guys feel when they see a picture of some big breasted chick with her legs in the air and a “take me” look on her face? You know how some women feel when they see a pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes on sale at Neiman Marcus? That’s how I feel when I see this car. No, I don’t want to fuck it, but I just might rub up against it in a sexual fashion, given the chance. Oh hell, if it had a dick, I’d fuck it.

2. 74 Dodge Challenger

Make no mistake, I know very little about what lives inside the guts of a car. I couldn’t tell a hemi from a semi. But give me a car that looks like this and I’ll be making moves on it within seconds. I don’t need to know what it’s made of. I just need to know that it goes fast, roars loud and looks like the equivalent of a Victoria’s Secret model in boy shorts and a black lace bra.

This car is almost menancing. Maybe that’s what I like so much about it. Much like my fascination with Boba Fett or my love of any of Gary Oldman’s bad ass charactes, my taste in cars I wish I had runs toward the dark side. If cars were movie villains, this Challenger would be Drexl Spivey.

3. Ford Galaxie 500

I learned how to drive in one of these babies. Same colors, too – fire engine red with a snow white top. The car was old by then, in car years – this was a 68 in 1979 – but still looked factory clean. It drove like a dream – well, when you are 17 and gripping the wheel for the first time even a station wagon would ride like a dream – and I felt immediately comfortable behind the wheel. I was learning to drive in style. The 500 was a beauty of a car; slick, sexy, the kind of car supermodels with white framed sunglasses and deep tans drove.

4. 1970 Ford Mustang

Unlike the previous cars I’ve talked about – where I envisioned myself driving them – this one is pure testosterone. It’s a guy’s car. If cars were dicks, the Mach I one would belong to John Holmes. It’s the kind of car I might not drive, but would keep in my driveway and spend every Saturday afternoon lovingly soaping it up and hosing it down while entertaining the neighborhood with Mach I worthy tunes.

5. 1969 GTO – The Judge

Normally, I don’t do orange, but somehow the color looks hot on this car. Hell, this is the kind of car you could roll out in some hideous shade of puke green and it would still look good.

If cars were guys, the ‘69 GTO would be the guy your mother warned you about; the one you are not supposed to look at, let alone talk to, because one stare from him would turn your chastity belt to dust. Yea, if this car were a guy, I would be standing in front of it, leaning down low, wearing the lowest cut shirt I own whispering something about checking the dipstick.

Except it’s gotta be the hardtop, not the convertible. Convertibles are nice on some cars, but when you are riding a bad boy like this, soft just won’t do.

So there’s the five car’s I’d bang.

Speaking of car bangers:

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Without taking the time to explain why, I’ll just tell you that we had to repaint the entire living room and hallway that we just painted two weeks ago. We had to do it all last night, as the living room/hallway carpet is being installed this evening. We started at 5 (enlisting the slave labor knowns as children) and we were done – trim, edging and all – before Hell’s Kitchen went on.

Disappointing episode. Either there wasn’t enough drama and anger or I was just too busy moaning about how much my back hurt to notice. And I still can’t figure out what the hell that thing on Melissa’s face is.

I’m exhausted and hurting and I’ve got nothing today.

Except, I was sent a link to this site this morning and, my god. I need to be rich.

And when I am rich, I am going to have a garage filled with muscle cars. Chargers and ‘Cudas and Chevelles, oh my. I don’t know what it is, but just looking at cars like that gets my heart racing and my adrenaline pumping.

Speaking of cars, did I ever tell you about my neighbor’s AMC Pacer (so, maybe if you read my other blog – FTTW before it became a group blog, you might have read the story, but I’m probably going to be repeating a lot of the car stories from there because I like writing about cars and because some days I’m just really fucking tired and can’t think of anything to write about)?

Well, here it is.

My neighbor had a Pacer. Not sure what year her car was but I can tell you that the year she decorated it was 1976.

pacer.jpg

1976. The bicentennial year. Everything was draped in red, white and blue and movie theaters were charging 76 cents admission and there were bicentennial quarters and tv specials and my mother, bless her American heart, went all out for this special occasion by redecorating the living room in a Colonial motif, complete with replica Liberty Bell. She also dressed my little sister in red white and blue bellbottoms. She tried this with me, but I was 14. She got a derisive laugh and a “what the fuck are smoking, lady?” look. She said something like “Where is your pride, young lady?” And I thought hey, Bellbottom Pride would make a great name for a song. Because when you’re 14, every semi-witty phrase you utter would make a good song title, even if you aren’t in a band and can’t write songs. It’s all about the titles.

There was only one person who outdid my mother in the Bicentennial fervor department. That was the Pacer lady. Pacer lady was the enormous, wild-eyed, half crazed woman who lived in the upstairs apartment in the run down house across the street. She wore nothing but sleeveless housecoats the size of which could cover a medium sized luxury car, had calves and arms that moved of their own accord, and was always followed around by several mangy cats who might have been just biding time in a Stephen King sort of way until Pacer Lady dropped dead of a heart attack and they would feast on the remains. There might have even been a vulture or two hovering around her, but don’t quote me on that.

She drove a Pacer. This larger than life woman every day stuffed herself into this tiny blue and white Pacer.I know, you’re thinking clowns in a Volkswagon right now, aren’t you? It was worse. Ever see a size 9 girl try to get into size 5 jeans? It went like that. Lots of shifting and maneuvering and grunts and groans and, in the case of Pacer lady, lots of leg flab flapping in the wind.

To celebrate the bicentennial, Pacer lady spent the morning of the Fourth of July, 1976, decorating her car with about twelve dozen American flags of varying sizes. Seriously, there was about 100 of these thing. Maybe even some streamers. I don’t know if she used crazy glue or wires or just the sheer power of patriotism, but by the time she was done, those flags were sticking out from her engine, her doors, the trunk and windows and hell, I think she had a few sticking out from the folds in her arms. And just for the occasion, she was wearing a red, white and blue house dress adorned with stars and stripes. When she finished her decorating and she stood next to the car admiring her work, I couldn’t tell where Pacer lady ended and the car began. All I could think was “When patriotism attacks!” Patriotism Attacks! Another song!

When Pacer lady squeezed herself into her car that morning, I stood at my front door, face pressed against the glass, jaw hanging open, and I actually gasped when she finally stuffed herself into the driver’s seat and the Pacer grunted, groaned and nearly sunk to the ground under the weight of its owner. You could actually see the flags bob up and down as she adjusted herself behind the wheel. I started humming “Low Rider”. Pacer lady knows the low rider……low rider ...meh, I couldn’t work the flags in there.

As she pulled away from the curb and rounded the corner in front of me, the Pacer backfired, as if it were setting off its own holiday fireworks. The car lurched and stuttered and, for a brief moment, I thought it was going to die right there in front of my house, draped with flags like a ready-made coffin. I had the sudden urge to salute, but then the car kicked up again. It moved forward and the Pacer lady gave me this brown-toothed grin and waved a meaty arm at me. If cars had feelings, that poor Pacer would want to die of shame. And that’s saying a lot for a car that was sort of an embarrassment to itself to begin with. That it was made to suffer more indignities at the hand of a some meaty, beaty big and bouncy lady and her deranged attempts at national pride was almost too much to watch. I turned away from the scene as the Pacer backfired and stalled again. It wanted to die. Pacer suicide. Oh yea, that would make a good song.

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