(no subject)
At least some people feel confident enough to plop their posteriors upon the cushiony seats in my '94 Chevy Cavalier. Other stray unfathomable distances; afraid of the bulk of its chassey as if it was overrun by poltergeists.
Despite everyone's views, it's become easier to wash away the regret of losing confidence in your passengers. The bond between a passenger and their ill-advised dipshit driver friend is a bond that needs to be respected, nurtured, and never broken. When the bond is broken, the driver becomes a Blues Brother.
Everyone remembers the delightful fairytale "The Blues Brothers", the story of two Jehovah's Witnesses that have NO REGARD FOR DA' LAW!!11 or old ladies that dress up in penguin suits. They are anarchic, rebellious, and they've shunned the mystery of Jehovah to drive through malls and terrestrially fuck shit up!
I welcome the inevitability of my metamorphosis, though it's not as if I haven't made strides to change my ways. I, unfortunately, thrive on showing off, it seems. I'd swerve in heavy traffic to spook the unlucky throne-holder in shotgun, knock bumpers, honk at red lights, and clothesline passing bikers. Slowly the seed of the Blues Brother begins to imprint itself upon me, so much that I actually have scared a friend or to into anti-Cavalier submission.
With all due respect, it was because I was attempting the Blues Brothers 180-spin-and-park.
*INSERT MOVIE FILE DEPICTING THE HOLIEST OF CAR MANUEVERS*
From the movie file, you can clearly see Elwood swerving at a high speed, pulling the emergency brake, and parallel-parking between two other stationary vehicles. With a little practice, a completely empty street, time, patience, no friends in visible sight to see what you are doing and decide to never drive with you again on account of you attempting this, some Marlboro cigarettes, a stunt double, magic, and a few Phoenix Downs for when you spin out uncontrollably and careen off an arbitrarily nearby cliff, and you will be equipped to master this technique.
However, I hope to become so much of a driving asshole that my DNA will simply transubstantiate and I will become Dan Akroyd, circa 1980, so that my genes will be so badass that I may be able to pull this manuever. Anything after 1990 will be too much, and I will be fatter, and co-starring perhaps in Crossroads, Pearl Harbor, and Coneheads.
In summation, I am a reckless driver at times. I can be reliable, get you through the thickest of traffic, and headbutt New York like it was my two-dollar bitch. Ask Aymon. I can also be impatient, unobservant, and playful at the worst times. Ask... everyone.
You getting in my car is a trust issue. I suppose it's justifiable, however, for you to scream bloody murder and clutch the door handle when I take wing over a jughandle or fly off curbs into heavy traffic.
But, hey, I'm dumb as hell, and I'm using the driving tactics of the Blues Brothers to justify my recklessness. I win.
Despite everyone's views, it's become easier to wash away the regret of losing confidence in your passengers. The bond between a passenger and their ill-advised dipshit driver friend is a bond that needs to be respected, nurtured, and never broken. When the bond is broken, the driver becomes a Blues Brother.
Everyone remembers the delightful fairytale "The Blues Brothers", the story of two Jehovah's Witnesses that have NO REGARD FOR DA' LAW!!11 or old ladies that dress up in penguin suits. They are anarchic, rebellious, and they've shunned the mystery of Jehovah to drive through malls and terrestrially fuck shit up!
I welcome the inevitability of my metamorphosis, though it's not as if I haven't made strides to change my ways. I, unfortunately, thrive on showing off, it seems. I'd swerve in heavy traffic to spook the unlucky throne-holder in shotgun, knock bumpers, honk at red lights, and clothesline passing bikers. Slowly the seed of the Blues Brother begins to imprint itself upon me, so much that I actually have scared a friend or to into anti-Cavalier submission.
With all due respect, it was because I was attempting the Blues Brothers 180-spin-and-park.
*INSERT MOVIE FILE DEPICTING THE HOLIEST OF CAR MANUEVERS*
From the movie file, you can clearly see Elwood swerving at a high speed, pulling the emergency brake, and parallel-parking between two other stationary vehicles. With a little practice, a completely empty street, time, patience, no friends in visible sight to see what you are doing and decide to never drive with you again on account of you attempting this, some Marlboro cigarettes, a stunt double, magic, and a few Phoenix Downs for when you spin out uncontrollably and careen off an arbitrarily nearby cliff, and you will be equipped to master this technique.
However, I hope to become so much of a driving asshole that my DNA will simply transubstantiate and I will become Dan Akroyd, circa 1980, so that my genes will be so badass that I may be able to pull this manuever. Anything after 1990 will be too much, and I will be fatter, and co-starring perhaps in Crossroads, Pearl Harbor, and Coneheads.
In summation, I am a reckless driver at times. I can be reliable, get you through the thickest of traffic, and headbutt New York like it was my two-dollar bitch. Ask Aymon. I can also be impatient, unobservant, and playful at the worst times. Ask... everyone.
You getting in my car is a trust issue. I suppose it's justifiable, however, for you to scream bloody murder and clutch the door handle when I take wing over a jughandle or fly off curbs into heavy traffic.
But, hey, I'm dumb as hell, and I'm using the driving tactics of the Blues Brothers to justify my recklessness. I win.