Bick Skruth is an experienced racer, author, and nasal hair nullification consultant. He contributes to several automotive web sites as well as our own.
Hello, Only People Who Come Even Remotely Close To Being Worth My Time! I hear a lot of complaints about auto writers being out of touch with so-called “real people” and what they actually want out of a car. Apparently, we are supposed to believe that there are people who just want to get from Point A to Point B and look on a car as transportation and nothing more. These supposed “real” “people”, so the legend goes, are capable of getting more than 10,000 miles out of a set of tires and more than 10 minutes out of a set of brakes. As if! I know there are no drivers anywhere in the known multiverse as awesome as I am, but I refuse to believe there are actual human beings who could be so dead on the inside. Pisscrackers.
But that doesn’t keep the throng of alleged “automotive journalists” from writing review after shit-sodden review of lame-ass snoozemobiles, all in the name of consumer advocacy. You and I know this is just a way for them to hide their wholly inadequate driving skills. You could plant any one of these guys behind the wheel of a McLaren P1 and cram the ghost of Ayrton Senna* right up his ass, and I’d still be able to out-drive him in my awesome Accord, even with one awesome hand tied behind my awesome back and my awesome hair in awesome braids like Eric Clapton likes to wear. Oh, wait, you’ve never seen the Clapster with his hair in braids, have you? I guess that’s because you don’t have private jam sessions with him like I do. Asshangers.
* You may have heard rumors that Ayrton Senna’s alleged death at San Marino was staged, and that in fact he died of pure embarrassment after learning that I beat his time at Estoril in my 993, which is the third most awesome car ever created (after the Volkswagen Phaeton and the Honda Accord). I will not deny that rumor, however I firmly deny that I started that rumor during the regional press drive for the 2012 Ford Transit Connect.
So, anyway, I decided to show these useless dinosaurs who still inscribe their insipid prose on dead trees how a real writer reviews a real car for these alleged real people. For my mount, I chose the Mitsubishi Mirage. Not because the press fleet operators have refused to loan me anything with more than 100 horsepower ever since that unfortunate incident involving a Lexus, Tommy Mottola’s personal assistant, a rather large shop window, a pair of cocker spaniels, a guitar, some cheese, Spain, a can of Fix-A-Flat, a neon-colored sport jacket, the sea, half a dozen Wiffle balls, a dog-eared copy of For Whom The Bell Tolls, and a strongly-worded letter to the Vatican. No, I chose the Mirage because it’s the sort of cheap car that these theoretical real people can afford. Dickwashers.
I don’t read other people’s car reviews, but that hasn’t stopped me from reading a bunch of car reviews in which these so-called reporters say the Mirage is depressingly slow and handles like a 17th-century barouche. What would you expect from… well, you know. All I can say is that if you stand on the gas for long enough, and if you have skills as big as Mt. Everest and balls the size of a shipping container like certain True Shit writers whose rock-star hair we all know and love, the Mirage will get around any corner as quick as a Ferrari driven by someone of average (read: no recognizable) skill, even if you have to take out some grass and a couple of hundred-year-old oaks to make that happen. (I never realized those things cost so much to replace. Will the IRS get mad if I expense them and write them off my taxes? Shitwigglers.)
Of course, any lame-ass autojourno can press a car past all reasonable limits of tires, physics, state borders and sanity and say it’s no good, even if they can’t do it anywhere near as well as me. Since I write for True Shit About Cars, the only site with the balls and the hair to tell you the way it is, I decided to do some real-world testing of the cargo area, so I folded down the back seat for a threesome with my hot-ass girlfriend and my other hot-ass girlfriend, something Mike Spinelli has never done. (He prefers to bang my girlfriends one at a time.) Two minutes after their panties hit the trunk floor, it was clear my services were no longer required, but that’s okay, I was finished anyway. I left the two girls to it. Nutflingers.
I’d tell you the Mirage is a good buy for entry-level buyers and an economical if somewhat flawed car, but you can read that claptrap on any lame-ass WordPress back-end website besides mine. Why bother, when none of this really matters? Automotive journalism is dead, and the only reason we have press cars and press fleets is so that a bunch of self-important men with small dicks and shattered dreams can fool themselves into thinking they are authorities on the second biggest purchase made by the average American titfiddler and ignore the fact that the world of automotive “journalism” is crashing down around them like a Malaysia Airlines 777. Everything to which they have devoted their working life is as useless as a screen door with tits. No one gives a shit what we have to say, because the world is filled with useless sniveling twats who think Duck Dynasty is the pinnacle of culture. Everyone — every single man, woman and child on the face of this pathetic fucking planet — is useless and lame. And when I say “everyone,” I mean everyone but you, my readers, the only people with even a shred of intelligence and human decency, not to mention dead-sexy cheekbones. Barkhumpers.
You can read more of Bick Skruth at TrueShitAboutCars.com.