Bick Skruth is an experienced racer, author, and testicle inspector. He is the Editor-at-Awesome for True Shit About Cars and contributes to several other web sites, including our own.
Hello, my bitches! Did you miss me? Of course you did, you fuckin’ fruitbats!
Contrary to what is being said, my sabbatical from car testing these last few weeks has been entirely self-imposed. The rumors that I have been blacklisted by every automaker because of an unfortunate incident involving an Audi, a forest, two rockin’-ass guitars, a disturbingly large quantity of Havarti cheese, a poisonous laundry basket, some duct tape, Peru, a bottle of Harbinger’s All-Purpose Hair Restorer, a pair of underwear that reportedly once belonged to Bill Cosby, the Bible, the moon, and a quart of Dryer’s Light Moose Tracks Ice Cream are malicious and false. And while I’m sure that if anyone’s bodily fluids really could short out a vehicle’s entire electrical system, mine sure as hell could, I would like to point out that this is not specifically prohibited in the Borrowed Vehicle Agreement I signed when the car was delivered. Basswankers.
Oh, and to answer the PR guy’s question about how one could cause perfectly identical and symmetrical crumple damage to both the right and left rear doors, the answer is talent, bitch! (Knobfarter.)
Because the automobile business is so fuckin’ lame, I decided to set aside work on my box set and loan my prodigious talents to the personal-mobility industry. Though several of the manufacturers I contacted were too pathetic to realize how lucky they’d be to have me take time away from my novel, my music and my penis to give them some ink, three of them responded and sent me test units. One demanded I send the unit back after testing (oops, I seem to have lost that one at my hot-ass girlfriend’s house), another set the UPS truck on fire before it could be delivered, but the Senzou Happy Place 45YMilktitty Hovah Baud Deluxe Success arrived at my palatial piazza ready for testing… and test that fucker I did! Napkinspankers.
First of all, let me say that when you consider that anything powered by electricity is inherently stupid and lame, the 45Y Milktitty is a nifty piece of kit. It accelerates from naught to its top speed of 6.5 MPH nearly as quickly as I can deliver the beans when I’m attempting to pleasure my hot-ass girlfriend, and it corners with all the skill I show when I pick up my axe and ride, man, ride. Do you doubt me? Oh, you don’t want to make that mistake, biscuitshuckers.
The instruction manual warns the owner to “Being careful! Turn to fast for speed or accelerate could be falling from injury,” but that clearly doesn’t apply to the man who set a lap time at Laguna Seca so low that his entire family has been threatened with eternal damnation should it be revealed in any decade in which I am alive. So naturally I hit that thing harder than I hit yo’ mama’s sweet spot in my dreams last night. It became immediately apparent that the Senzou Happy just isn’t up to my level of mad skillz, but my knee and ankle are healing up nicely and I appreciate all the kind wishes on Facebook. Chickenbaggers.
Not that any of this matters, because journalism of every sort is dead. The whole once-noble profession has been reduced to a bunch of has-been hacks who can’t tell understeer from underwear tattooing “Destination: Large intestine” on their tongues and puckering up to the PR patsies so they can rack up their next hundred thousand frequent flier miles then toss off five hundred words at a dollar per to some four-color snot-rag that hasn’t been relevant since before Monica’s dress was stained. The world is nothing but a great big turd just waiting for God to wipe out those last few Klingons and hit the lever that will send the whole useless, pointless, soulless, shirtless mess round and round and down the drain of sweet, sweet oblivion. The day can’t come soon enough when the wretched stain of humanity is finally wiped out by the great eternal shot of Formula 409, because every last purposeless peon on this pathetic pansy-ass planet deserves nothing less. Pantsmanglers.
Of course, I mean everyone except for you, my faithful readers, who are the only people worthy of anything other than my utter disdain. Peace out, baconfarters!
You can read more of Bick Skruth at TrueShitAboutCars.ru.