Now that you've been familiarized with the clown boats racing this river of ridiculosity, let's get on with the story.
I don't drive the firebird at night when I'm not planning to race. The exhaust is louder than Fran Drescher and the less time it's on the road, the less chance **** is going to break. Generally, I drive my beater 1988 Bronco II. It isn't pretty, but it gets the job done. This description can be applied to about the last three girls I've dated.
This particular night, however, I decided to change it up. My mom's a hot rodder at heart, but she's still a girly girl. As girly girly as you can be for a middle aged woman, I suppose. She's got the 6 speed turbo beetle 's'. That's right, you can now row six gears while looking like a complete pantywaist.
As I was out killing time waiting for my buddy to get off of work, I was cruising around with the windows down and some Red Hot Chili Peppers playing to keep me in a nice, mellow, law abiding mood. Fumbling with the headlight knob, I found out how to turn on the brighter-than-hell foglights. This was extremely pleasing, as the only guaranteed working lights I see in the firebird are the red and blue ones that periodically come flying up on my ***.
So there I am, slapping my clammy open palms together and giggling like a schoolgirl at the sheer aesthetic pleasure of these wondrous pools of light that I had created when a slammed white integra pulls up on my left side. Since he's driving normal I don't sneer at him, and just do a quick once-over on his car.
Black hood? Check.
5Zigen Copper Wheels? Check.
5" Muffler with 1/2" ID Tubing? Check.
Hell it isn't my style, but at least he isn't driving like an idiot. Then I hear it. You know the sound, that horrendous yowl of a straightpiped civic hitting quintouple digit RPMS for a flyby. My new friend in the Integra has his nose hairs singed to a stubble as he's cut off by a purple Civic Si. I don't like this driving style at all, and I intend to teach this guy a lesson.
I screw my face up into "righteous indignation mode", click down a gear, and tuck in behind the Civic for some redemption. The Civic makes a right turn at the next stoplight, while the Integra goes forward. I shadow the Civic for maybe an 1/8 mile, after which we hit a red light together. I begin my customary "pre race look over and smirk" routine, and quickly catch myself; realizing what I'm driving. My eyes stay locked to the red and I depress the clutch and put the monster 1.8t into first gear.
I'm hearing no revs or launch prep from the civic, but just in case I disable the traction control and bring the clutch up to just under the point of engagement.
The light goes green, and we launch like old people screw.
I ease her through first gear and shift easily into second at about 2500rpms. Immediately then he dropped the hammer and I heard that "somebody shook the beehive" cacophony of noise from several feet behind me in the adjacent lane. A quick glance at the comically undersized tachometer shows that I'm barely taching 2000 rpms. Those of you with slow turbo cars know what WOT at these horse-lattitude doldrums of power would yield: NOTHING.
I'm already above the first gear lockout speed so I figure, what the hell, and I punch it. I've never heard anything try so hard for such little return, with the exception of Carlos Mencia. The bite sized snail shell wound up instantaneously and pushed with all it's might against the dead weight of the beetle; but with this RPM deficit to overcome, this thing might as well be a conestoga.
Thinking that I've blown the race, I glance over to see where my opponent's at. HE'S FALLING BEHIND. I feel like there's a boat anchor tied to my bumper, and this asshat is still losing ground. Holy Christ, my entire concept of contemporary physics has just been obliterated. Black is white. Up is down. Queen ripped off Vanilla Ice's timeless classic "Ice Ice Baby."
I slam third and run it to redline. As I hit 6500, I cease the 'giddy' and put some 'whoa' on the old pony until I'm back to legal speeds. The Civic is hanging back, apparently deciding how to handle this ego destroyingly embarassing loss. How does he end up handling it? You won't believe this.
He downshifted and flew past me, only to cut me off and throw on his hazards. Shocking, I know. I pulled even with him and shrugged as if to say, "You know in your heart who won, man. And even though I'm driving the number one volume car bought by homosexuals worldwide, I just beat you in a drag race with it."
As I made a u-turn to head back towards Lowe's to meet up with my friend, I examined the built in flower vase on the dashboard, and I reflected on the night's proceedings.
Only one flower grows in this car, I thought. The sweet, sweet chrysanthemum of victory.