To the kid in the Hyundai with the spoiler the size of 747 wing bolted to the trunk: Did you really think that screwing on a giant chunk of metal would make your pathetic 4 cylinder crap box go fast?

To the midlife crisis in the Corvette: You know buddy, your car probably is faster than mine. Maybe next time you’ll be able to catch up if you can get it out of first gear.

To the guy in the mauve LeBaron convertible: What were you thinking?

And to the guy in the PT Cruiser: Sorry pal, it’s not a hot rod, even with the “flame” decals you got at Pep Boys.

People, I have 302 cubic inches of raw Detroit fury under the hood with an Edelbrock Performer manifold and four barrel carb tuned like a hair trigger. Zero to sixty faster than you can spit. It’s why they call it a muscle car. So please, for the sake of your own embarrassment, don’t try to race me at the stoplight. Unless, of course, you enjoy eating dust and bits of gravel.

Note: Sorry for the above entry, but I took the the six–nine for a ride yesterday for the first time in months and every stoplight turned into a drag race.