A bit of humor compliments of the jag pub list. Picture this.Author
anonymous.
-----Original Message-----
From: Mary Rolfe [mailto:pansoph@pansophist.com]
Sent: Wednesday, November 08, 2000 10:31 AM
To: Paige, Dean
Subject: RE: [pub] And the Light Turned Green...
Deano,
I've been re-reading this joke for two days and am still laughing out loud.
"One liter of raw power, three cylinders of asphalt-tearing terror on
thirteen-inch rims."
LOL!
Mary
Mary & Jon
The Magical Jaguar, Misstoffelees, 89 XJ40, Mass.
http://www.pansophist.com/jag.htm
Jaguar (JAG-you-uh) n. A large, fierce, pavement-eating member of the
cat family. Just About the Greatest, Ultimate, Automobile on Record.
> -----Original Message-----
> From: Paige, Dean [mailto:DPaige@ci.santa-rosa.ca.us]
> Sent: Wednesday, November 08, 2000 1:17 PM
> To: 'pansoph@pansophist.com'; pub@jag-lovers.org
> Subject: RE: [pub] And the Light Turned Green...
>
>
> Now that's funny!
>
> Deano
>
> -----Original Message-----
> From: Mary Rolfe [mailto:pansoph@pansophist.com]
> Sent: Wednesday, November 08, 2000 9:25 AM
> To: pub@jag-lovers.org
> Subject: [pub] And the Light Turned Green...
>
>
> I borrowed my wife's Geo Metro last night. One liter of raw power, three
> cylinders
> of asphalt-tearing terror on thirteen-inch rims. It's stock, alright,
> nothing done
> to it, but it pushes the barely 2000 pounds of Metro around with
AUTHORITY.
> I'm
> always catching mopeds and 18-wheelers by surprise.
>
> I was headed back from Baskin Robbins with my manly triple-latte
cappuccino
> blast
> ("No Cinnamon, ma'am, I take it BLACK"), when I stopped at a streetlight.
As
> the
> Metro throbbed its throaty idle around me, I sipped my bold beverage and
> wiped
> the white froth my stiff upper lip. I was minding my own business, but
then
> I
> heard a rev from the next lane. I turned, made eye contact, then let my
eyes
> trace
> over the competition. Ford Festiva- a late model, could be trouble. Low
> profile
> tires, curb feelers, and schoolbus-yellow paint. Yep, a hot rod, for sure.
>
> The howl of his motor snapped my reverie, and I looked back into the
> driver's eyes,
> nodded, then blipped my own throttle. As I tugged on my driving gloves and
> slipped
> on my sunglasses (gotta look cool to be fast, and I am *damn* cool,
> hence...),
> the night was split with the sound of seven screaming cylinders.
>
> Then the light turned... I almost had him out of the hole, my three
pounding
> cylinders thrusting me at least a millimeter back into my seat, smoke
> pouring
> from my front right tire... but my unlimited slip differential was letting
> me
> down! I saw in the corner of my eyes, a yellow snout gaining, and I heard
> the
> roar of his four cylinders. He slung by me, right front wheel juddering
> against
> the pavement, and he flashed me a smile as his .7 extra liters of motor
> stretched
> its legs. I kept my foot gamely in it, though, waiting for the CHECK
ENGINE
> light
> to blink on in the one-gauge (no tachometer here!) instrument panel. I saw
a
> glimpse of chrome under his bumper, and knew the ugly truth... He was
> running a
> custom exhaust- probably a 2-into-1 dual exhaust...maybe event cutouts!
Damn
> his
> hot-rod soul! The old lady passing us on the crosswalk cast a dirty look
in
> our
> boy-racer direction.
>
> Yet still I persisted, with my three pumping pistons singing a heady
> high-pitched song, wound fully out. Though only a few handfuls of seconds
> had
> passed, we were nearing the crosswalk at the other side of the
intersection,
> and I heard the note of his engine change as he made his shift to second,
> and
> I saw his grin in his rearview mirror fade as he missed the shift! I
> rocketed
> by, shifting, and nursed the clutch gently in to keep from bogging,
keeping
> my
> motor spinning hot and pulling me ahead, now trailing a cloud of stinking
> clutch smoke. Not ready to give up so easily, he left his foot in it,
> revving,
> and I heard one wheel *almost* chirp as he finally found second and
dropped
> the
> clutch. We careened over the crosswalk, now going at least 15 miles per
> hour.
> A bicyclist passed us, but intent on the race as we were, neither of us
> batted an eye.
>
> He pulled slowly abreast of me, and neck and neck, we made the shift to
> third,
> the scream of motors deafening all pedestrians within a five foot circle.
He
> nosed ahead as we passed 30 miles an hour, then eased in front of me,
> taunting,
> as we shifted into fourth. I was staring up the dual 6" chrome tips of his
> exhaust, snarling, my cappuccino forgotten, as he lifted a little to take
> the
> next corner.
>
> I saw my opportunity, and counting on the innate agility of my trusty
steed,
> I pulled wide into the number two lane and kept my foot buried in carpet.
> Slowly, I inched around him, feeling my Metro roll slowly to the left as I
> came
> abreast in the midst of this gradual sweeping turn. I felt the Geo ease
onto
> its suspension stops, and felt the right rear wheel slowly leave the
> ground -
> no matter, though, because my drive wheels, up front, were pulling me
> through
> the corner, and around the Festiva.
>
> The Ford driver beat his wheel in rage as my wife's car eased past him on
> the
> outside, my P165/80R13's screaming in protest, as we raced to the next
> light.
> We coasted down, neck-and neck, to the red light. I tightened my driving
> gloves, ready for another round, when this WIMP in the next car meekly
> flipped
> his turn signal and made a right. Chevy/Geo (Suzuki) superiority reigns!!!
>
> I drove off sipping my masculine drink, awash in my sheer virility,
looking
> for other unwitting targets. Perhaps a Yugo, or maybe even a Volkswagen
> Van!
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