These things I belive:

Six cylinders are just barely enough.

Eight cylinders guarantee happiness.

Turbos are manic-depressive. Sometimes they're a hoot, but the rest of the time they're just sad.

Every wheel should have power.

But if you can't send power to all four wheels, send it to the rear wheels.

The distance from the front axle to the base of the windshield should be greater than the distance from the front axle to the front bumper. (Think about it.)

More buttons are more fun.

LED brakelights should be mandatory.

People who hate HIDs are just jealous.

Every additional cupholder takes a year off your life.

Anyone who walks into a Pontiac dealership should automatically lose their license.

The left lane is for passing. FOR CHRISSAKE, THE LEFT LANE IS FOR PASSING.

Respect pedestrians in crosswalks. Screw the rest of them.

No didacticism or introspection today. Instead... the WICKED AWESOME cars I saw in NYC this weekend!

-Rolls Royce Silver Spur (x2)
-Bentley Continental (x2)
-Maybach 62
-Ferrari F50
-1979 Mercedes 300 SD
-Porsche Cayenne 20-ft stretch limo. Actually, not wicked awesome. I believe the right word is "abomination." Is there a word that means "double abomination"?

The Mercedes might seem out of place. But this is my blog and I love those cars.







The Cayenne limo is vile. Even the non-limo Cayenne insults the whole idea of Porsche. Imagine if the next Miss America were a chunky, dumpy wad of a human being. Even if she sings like an angel and juggles like nobody's business, she shouldn't be called "Miss America."

And then the Cayenne limo. It's as if a plastic surgeon took a look at the aforementioned chunky, dumpy wad and decided, "Gee, this patient of mine is a little flabby. Let's get the liposuction needle in her AND THROW IT IN REVERSE."

I know that I, and my friends, have a miniscule chance of being killed in a car accident. We’re more likely to breathe our last breath as a tumor squeezes our vital organs, or perhaps our hearts will beat psychotically until they explode.

But breaking our necks in a high-speed impact? Not too likely. It could happen, but probably not.

Yet nothing matters more to me when buying a car.

Cars are what I know, just like a cardiologist knows how to take care of a heart, or an oncologist knows how to keep his cells from mutating into microscopic murderers. Is the cardiologist justified in eating nothing but tofu and jogging three hours a day? Or the oncologist when he consumes cod liver oil garnished with vitamin pills? Or me… when I pressure everyone I know to buy the safest cars they can afford?

Our perception of danger has less to do with its real probability and more with how much we know about it. When I’m in a car that I know is unsafe, I’m nervous. At every intersection, I assess my chance of survival if the approaching car ignores the stoplight and slams into me—because unlike most people, I know enough about safety to make that assessment. Though the chance of a crash is miniscule, the possibility distracts me. And when it’s time to shop for a car for myself (or my girlfriend), I treat the possibility as a certainty.

But you know something? It actually happened. A twit in a Jeep wrecked Michelle’s car—a car we had chosen because we knew it was safe. And now, we can’t imagine buying an unsafe car. Maybe I’m like a guy who survived a lightening strike and has decided to wear 12-inch rubber soles. People’s brains are easily scrambled by experience.

http://unix.rulez.org/~calver/video/mercedes_safety.mpeg

It’s not crazy, though. It’s just how we work.

Time for sterotypes!

Saturn = pussy
Pontiac = asshole
Mercedes = snob
BMW = snob + asshole
Volvo = wimp (unless driving a T5-R, in which case you have my respect)
Saab = wimp + snob
Buick = assisted living
Oldsmobile = R.I.P.