Saturday, November 29, 2008

Johnny Rumble:
Chattahoochee

"Alan Jackson got it right"

Anybody that reads this blog with any sort of regularity will know that I lay at the feet of the idols of Automotivedom. To pull a quote from an earlier blog, "I'm libal to stick my dick in the tail pipe while giving head to a turbocharger love." It's just how I roll.

Except currently my rolling has turned into an unbridled passion for the gas pedal. I drive a Saturn SL2 with a plaid panda velcroed to the back window sill. For the past year and a half, at least, I've been trying to avoid getting that itch that starts at the tips of fingers, travels through my heart and finally ends in the frontal lobe of my brain. That itch that causes me to flog the Saturn up and down mountain roads till I pass out from stimuli exhaustion.

Associated with this itch, which I have dubbed the "Driver's Itch," also comes with the following symptoms: Increased sex drive, non-verbal communication with inanimate objects with four wheels and an engine, and acute un-responsiveness to naked women or pie. Yes. Pie.

The Saturn was talking to me today. She was nervous, twitchy even. Like a feral cat that's been caged for too long. She pleaded to be set free. "I've been stuck in a rut, get me out." I put on some black dress pants. "Take me for a drive, beat me like a rented mule." Black dress shirt, black tie. "Are you taking me to my funeral, or to my heaven?" Remove the non-essential keys, condense to one wallet, slip on the Deer-Stags. "Come on, hurry up, let's go!"

I set her free, I just held the reins as she took me for a long jaunt through the Yuba Foothills. Laughing with glee and exciment, crossing the double-yellow lines without a care in the world, running up to seven-thousand revolutions and beyond.

"It's been too long darling."

I smiled.

She came home wet, hot and satisfied.

Laid rubber on the Cali Asphalt,

Johnny Rumble

2 comments:

  1. You sir, either need to step into, or buy a Honda. With your desires, your yearning for speed, maybe even a newer Honda. Say... maybe... a DC5, or are you an old school conesueir, maybe an EG6 or EF sedan. Regardless, hop back on the band wagon with thine mountain passes and get grippin' proper, how I know you know you'd love to. Revving to 9500rpm, hitting those marks across those double yellows toward the apex, and never let it be too long again, darlin'.

    Oh, and btw, thanks for reading. By your description alone, you seem like a guy I've been comrades with for years. I truly appreciate the love, guy.

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