A lone quandary
I wash my ass, then my face
why?! Why'd I do that?
So Smeagol has been telling JJ he is pretty sure his hot rod 1992 Honda Prelude could smoke my 1989 High Output (meaning 108 horsepower instead of the wimpy 86 on stock) Ford Escort, with the super smooth 5 speed manual transmission and lack of bolts holding the front end together. This is going to be some real fun, but I figured I would take you on a short trip through some of his past races and prove why I think he has no chance.
Race #1: Smeagol - 1992 Pontiac Grand Am Opponent - 1986 Mustang Dominator
This race, as many others, was completely impromptu, and doomed from the beginning. As you all know, the 1992 Pontiac Grand Am was a weak 6 cylinder 135 HP engine, versus the HO 5.0 supercharged 350+ engine the Mustang Dominator, with it's dual glasspack exhaust, which could beat a stock Corvette.
The Story: so we were, as usual, about 20 minutes late leaving for work, as Smeagol was taking one of his usual shaving cream baths and fell asleep having a tinkle, and damned if I am going to go in there and try to wake his nasty ass up (Mystery never flushed, so there were always flies and shit in the bathroom, and the piss in the toilet had like this nasty ass film over it. Pretty nasty, I remember cleaning that toilet out before company came over). We were cruising up I-29 North, and were just going over Parvin Road, when this Mustang Dominator zooms by, easily doing 100 (with the speed limit being 55, Smeagol would regularly drive 80). Smeagol got into race mode.
Race mode, if I have not gone into this before, is when Smeagol starts gyrating in his seat like a meth addict, saying over and over "aaaawwwwwwwshiiiiiiiit niggie, it's on now, it's on now... whoooooooeeeeeeessssshhhhhiiiiiiiittttt" and starts flattening his perm on the sides with his outstretched hands. He then puts one outstretched hand (he never closes his hands, is what I am trying to get at) on the shifter, which I am not sure why because it is a fucking automatic, and places his other raptor claw on the wheel at 12 o'clock, I guess ignoring the fact that he does not possess the strength to turn the wheel with only one hand.
So there he is, hair all in disarray, car smelling like activator, thong and shaving cream, and he stomps on the gas, let's imagine (even though he was still saying the above phrase) that he said "I'm a guy!" as if only to convince himself.
Instead of responding positively to the stomping of a raptor on it's accelerator, we all know by now failure refused to let that happen, and he ended up blowing a seal or the head gasket. There was a loud popping sound, and smoke billowed out from under the hood. "Awwww shiit niggie, I almost had that bish muhfugger" Smeagol said happily, ignoring the fact that he had only made 5 payments on this car and now no longer had a car. And no, we got nowhere near close to outrunning that car, as they had gotten off on the exit before us, so in essence Smeagol was racing them as they slowed to stop at the stoplight.
Epilogue: Smeagol called the car dealership, told them "Hey niggie your car broke down, I'm not paying for it, come get it stupid!" Thus getting another hit on his credit, which is why he has to call at least 10 used car dealers before he can find one sleazy enough to deal with him now... what a class act.
Monday: I go into the second of three races: The Blazer. This one ended in a hit and run by our wily raptor, which has still not been solved. Don't tell the authorities!