Bick Skruth is an experienced racer, author, and forensic flatulence inspector. He is the Editor-at-Awesome for True Shit About Cars and contributes to several other web sites, including our own.
Good morning, pidgeonlickers! I want to thank all of you who clued me in to the fact that a certain British web site has been writing parodies of yours truly. Those of you who don’t know what I mean, visit the site look for the articles that aren’t funny. Oh, sorry, that describes all of them. I’m talking specifically about the stories starring a certain character that the writer named after something that goes into his mother’s tuna chasm on a daily basis. Something besides my 100% all-beef jumbo-size love missile, that is. Mankswallower.
Do I care that my whole persona is being ripped off by some nameless lame-ass writing an obscure web site in a country where they think boiling water is the pinnacle of technology? Not on your life, fatasses. We’re talking about a nation that thinks it can look down on the United States of Fuckin’ America because their pansy-ass version of IndyCar involves turning in both directions, even as they attempt to bog it down with so many rules that it’s beginning to resemble that bastardized form of baseball they play over there. Colonspankers.
Oh yes, I’ve raced in England—Fuckwood, or whatever they call that dinky-ass Laguna Seca wannabe. How’d I do? I crashed one of those underpowered BTCC shitboxes before the second turn. DNF, they said. Damn skippy, putzmanglers, and that stands for Doing you a Nutbusting Favor. I could have set a lap time so low they’d need an atomic clock to record it, but why compound the misery of living in a place where no one’s had the bright idea to combine beer with modern refrigeration equipment or teeth with modern dental instruments? Jellofuckers.
And who is the weasel-faced genius behind this half-arsed attempt at parody? I won’t name names, but he’s a has-been former hack for whatever the hell they call the overgrown version of PBS they watch over there. His job was to make Jeremy Clarkson funnier, which is about as much of an accomplishment as making Donald Trump more obnoxious or making my Honda Accord more awesome or making my hot-ass girlfriend less willing to touch my passion pump. His career came to a crashing halt when Jezza’s knuckles kissed that producer’s peach fuzz, and now he’s got nothing to do but polish that overpriced Jeep Cherokee wannabe in his driveway and try to generate a few guffaws by ripping off the style of a Real Deal racer, journalist, musician and acquitted sex offender whose farts are more literate than he is. Donkeywarmer.
Oh, and if this chickenshagger wants to know MY name, he can just put a glass to the wall of his sister’s bedroom and listen. Toespackler.
So why am I not more upset over this British blasphemy of the most incredible thing to happen to the auto writing biz since the advent of the frequent flyer program? Because in the grand scheme of things, none of it really matters. After all, what is this Limey loser but just another pontificating pansy standing at the platform of Fat City waiting for the gravy train to roll in so he can climb aboard and start humping the hands that feed him? The car-buying public needs him about as much as they need cockrot. No one cares. No one is listening. Nothing ever changes, and it doesn’t matter whether you live out your four score and ten or take a swan dive into the path of a speeding Mack truck while the whole neighborhood cheers you on. Life is nothing but a big, loose, smelly shit, and each and every man, woman and child on this poor pitiable planet is a porcelain bowl open wide and waiting for the next mouthful.
Except, of course, for you, my readers, who are the biggest, boldest, bravest, and most non-attainable things this side of my hot-ass girlfriend’s right breast. Peace out, blanketspoogers!
You can read more from Bick Skruth at TrueShitAboutCars.ru.
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.
Bick Skruth is an experienced racer, author, and weasel decongester. He has asked us to publish the following statement which, after carefully reviewing his writer’s agreement and consulting our attorney, we realized we are contractually obligated to do.
Hello, only people the media would give a hand-carved crap about if they had even a whore’s eyelash worth of sense but they don’t! Your favorite auto writer is here with an important announcement, and I wanted to tell you first:
I am going to be Donald Trump’s running mate in the 2016 Presidential election*.
Perhaps you’ve noticed, but the similarities between me and The Donald go way beyond our awesome hair and the totally hot chicks we like to be seen with so as to imply that any woman with a full and working set of senses would consider any form of intimacy with us beyond riding in the same elevator. (Batdinglers.) Donald and I are the only guys with chrome-clad cojones big enough to tell you what’s really going on. That pissant John McCain? Dude, I was saying years ago McCain wasn’t a war hero. Actually, I might have been talking about this other guy who kicked my ass at a really intense autocross, but it’s hard to remember. I was pretty drunk. Dickminers.
Anyway, my point is that Donald Trump’s politics are just like my driving: Big, loud, out of control, and probably not as good as he makes them out to be. And IN YO’ FACE, chickendigglers! In yo’ FACE!
Besides, his daughter is totally hot, and I bet The Donald would let me try to bang her. Or at least ask her for autographed picture to look at while I massage the munchkin. Not that I’d expect her to say yes, but I’ve been turned down by hotter chicks. Actually, I’ve been turned down by most chicks. Assbakers.
Not that any of this matters, because the world of politics is dead. All the voters care about are lame-ass issues like how they will provide for their families as the government freely allows their employers to send their jobs overseas and how they will avoid losing their homes if they get sick and can’t afford to pay their medical bills. No one cares about what is really going on, like rapists coming across the border and Catholics eating crackers and whatever else Mr. Trump was talking about that I would have been paying closer attention to were I not busy staring at my hot-ass girlfriend’s fake enormoboobs in the hopes that one of these days she’ll let me touch them without putting down a sizable security deposit. Trussfilcher.
My point is that everything you see, from horizon to horizon, north, south, east and west, is as useless as a dildo in church, and all of you are too stupid, selfish and senseless to see what’s really going on. All of you, that is, except for my readers, who are the most guitar-awesome, lightning-shit-slick creatures in the universe.
* President Trump hasn’t actually asked me to be his running mate yet, but I know that as soon as he checks his email and sees the two dozen messages I’ve sent to him, he will.
You can read more of Bick Skruth at TrueShitAboutCars.com.
Bick Skruth is an experienced racer, author, and master jock strap rebuilder. He is the Editor-at-Awesome for True Shit About Cars and contributes to several other web sites, including our own.
Hello, only people the automakers would give a candy-striped shit about if they had any clue what they were doing but they don’t! Today’s post comes from the True Shit About Cars Department of I Told You So, with the news that yet another inferior so-called journalist has driven yet another inferior so-called car straight into yet another inferior so-called concrete wall. The incident occurred over the weekend, when General Motors, whose imminent and inevitable demise we used to cover on these very pages until all of our readers got bored and went away, decided to reveal the new Camaro not in front of a qualified group of real hard-nosed awesome-haired serious journalists, race drivers and 2600 subscribers like yours truly, but instead in front of a crowd of sycophantic knuckle-dragging beer-swilling spouse-abusing Camaro owners and a select few ass-licking hacks who could be counted on to nod like bobbleheads and tweet like #twelveyearolds as payment for their limited-edition numbered press kits and unlimited sushi, all of whom were predictably impressed on command as GM rolled out what was basically a fifth-generation Camaro with the edges sanded off. Assmankers.
Naturally, T-SAC was not invited to the 2016 Camaro reveal, which should come as no surprise: The event involved driving so-called “engineering prototypes” on a so-called “Grand Prix track” in a so-called “lead-and-follow” format. GM would never dare invite someone like me, who could lead so fast in his totally awesome Accord that no Camaro, no matter how talented the so-called “racing driver” behind the wheel, could possibly keep up. Yes, I’ve driven at Belle Isle. As for the rumor that Helio Castroneves once burst into tears when he saw the lap time I set in my absofucking brilliant Honda Accord, and that the City of Detroit threatened me with disembowelment should I ever speak about it for fear that I would scare every legitimate racing driver away from the Belle Isle Grand Prix, well, I just can’t comment on that, can I? But I’m sure that had something to do with GM snubbing us, though it might also be somewhat tangentially related to the time my totally-awesome driving caused my totally-hot totally-ex-girlfriend to totally make a little poo in the passenger seat of a Saturn Astra press car, a minor offense about which neither Ford, Honda, Tesla, Toyota, Chrysler, Bentley, Audi nor Lotus made a big deal when it happened in their vehicles. (Full disclosure: Mazda never even noticed. Monkeywankers.)
At the driving event, Chevrolet let a bunch of moderately-talented autojournos, their bellies full of the finest shrimp the Detroit River had to offer, take laps in lightly-camoflaged Camaros, and naturally, the inevitable happened: Someone stuffed it. Knowing that T-SAC would inevitably expose this so-called writer, who for the same of anonymity we shall refer to as George Patrick, the unfortunate half-talent decided to write “The Truth” about his crash. Let’s just analyze this so-called account, shall we?
“But as I came up on one corner, I made a mistake, took a line that was all wrong and braked far later than I should have, inducing terminal understeer.”
Anyone who knows jack shit about cars and driving can see right through this cellophane-thin veneer of complete and total bullpoopy. How do we, the Annointed People, know Mr. Patrick is full of excrement? Listen, losers, if you have to ask that question, then you sure as aytch-eee-double-hockey-stick don’t deserve an answer. All I can say is that the people who read T-SAC, the beautiful awesome-haired rock-star people who actually know what the hell they are talking about, don’t need an explanation. They know what really happened just as well as I do. We’ll leave the drooling masses who read Jaloptoblog to wonder why. Lynxfellators.
Of course, we know what would have happened if General Motors had been smart enough to invite me to this so-called event: I’ve have flown right past the lead Z28 and put some real heat in that Camaro’s tires, setting a new lap record and still having time to bang every attendee’s wife before the rest of the drivers made it to the finish line. (That’s right, mortals: I’m as quick between the sheets as I am behind the wheel.) And my in-car video sure as frick wouldn’t just parrot the “lighter and more nimble” line fed to the hacks by GM’s PR flacks. I’d have given you an honest assessment of what that over-blown drag-racer was all about, whether GM liked it or not. I’d have said the True Shit about that car (and George, baby, I’m sure I would have been asked to join you out there on the sidewalk). But of course, GM doesn’t want that sort of Truth out there. They have cars to sell, and they need the so called “automotive press” to help them sell them. Batlickers.
Not that any of this matters, because automotive journalism is dead. What passes for reporting these days is nothing more than a bunch of mindless, soulless, dickless, useless fishdinglers willing to be led by the nose to the next first-class dog-and-pony show so they can gobble shrimp like trained clubbed seals while the poor blue-collar slobs who actually buy cars (and never the cars these useless platitards waste their time writing about) pick up the tab in the form of another thirty bucks per month tacked on to a car payment that they can only afford by working three jobs and having their wife strip on the weekends while they stay home with the kids. The whole world is a hopeless cesspool of disappointment, despair and sexual denial, filled with whining carbon-based shit machines desperately hoping for one little shred of entertainment before their souls are sucked into the massive void of nothingness that lies ahead once we stop wasting our worthless time and surrender to the eternal darkness that awaits us all. You all fucking suck. Every last fucking one of you. Except, of course, for my readers, who are the most amazing and funniest and brightest and prettiest and most aesthetically fulfilled people on this otherwise sad, pathetic, pointless planet.
You can read more of Bick Skruth at TrueShitAboutCars.ru.
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.
Bick Skruth is an experienced racer, author, and genital hygiene specialist. He contributes to several automotive-related web sites as well as our own.
Hello, The Only Readers The Car Companies Would Give Two Shits About If They Had Any Sense But They Don’t! I’m just back from Portland, Oregon, where I braved the meth-addled masses in order to drive Dodge’s new Challenger Hellcat. I was surprised to be invited, not because I once totaled a Sebring by letting my friend’s pet llama give birth in the back seat, but because Chrysler is usually afraid to have real racers-slash-journalists like yours truly at their events. I expected to find a crowd of magazine and newspaper has-beens who think a free pair of Pilotis and a so-called “performance driving course” qualifies them to drive this 707 horsepower missile on a technical track like Portland International Raceway, and I was not disappointed. I knew from watching these guys weave around the track like Lindsay Lohan three days out rehab that they simply weren’t in the same zip code as me and my superior driving abilities. Cocktanglers.
Dodge at least had the good sense to assign babysitters to the wannabes, and yet I somehow got lumped in with these losers, even after informing them that I set the all-time track record at PIR in my awesome-ass Accord. Of course they didn’t believe me, but only because the track owners insisted I do it at night when no one was around. My time was, of course, way the hell better than anyone except me expected, so they made me seal it in an envelope, burn it, drop the ashes into a bottle of sulfuric acid, encase them in concrete and bury them in swamp in Louisiana, and all this only after taking a blood-oath that I would never reveal my time to anyone for fear of embarrassing every racing driver in the known universe and making them kill themselves in despair. What can I say — when you’re as amazing as I am, you get used to silly shit like this. Monkeylickers.
That explains why I was stuck in the Challenger Hellcat with some geriatric turd who claimed to have been instructing at PIR for twenty-five years, but then feigned shock and disgust when I blew straight through the chicane, spun the car in turn six and went ass-first through seven with two wheels in the grass. If he really knew the track, he’d know this was the fastest line. Instead, Grandpa ratted me out to the Chrysler narcs, who insisted that I give up the red key and return to the hotel in a bitch-ass six-cylinder Challenger SXT, which is a great economical performance value starting at just $26,995 plus destination, taxes and fees. Titfiddlers.
So how is the Challenger Hellcat? It’s too much, as in it’s too much for any mortal driver to handle. Seven hundred horsepower is a disaster waiting to happen unless you have super-human driving abilities and awesome grunge-band hair, both granted to you by aliens in a strange midnight ceremony on a mountaintop in Nepal. There is only one guy on this planet who fits that description, and it sure as fuck ain’t Nico Rosberg. Your average know-nothing piss-ant driver is going to roll this thing up into a ball faster than my hot-ass girlfriend can say “You can have five minutes and no kissing.” And at sixty large a throw, there are plenty of Skruth wannabees who will use the Hellcat as a one-way ticket to their maker. But that won’t stop the car magazines from plastering it all over their covers in a desperate attempt to fool a few more Mopar-masturbators into buying their withering rag, no matter what the cost in wasted lives and semen. Buttonfuckers.
Not that it matters, because automotive journalism is dead. Most people who “write” about “cars” are nothing more than Jay Leno wannabes who willingly blind themselves to the fact that they are sucking on the great silicon-filled tit of automotive PR, one that gorges them on free cars, frequent flyer miles, cheap wine and badly cooked beef tenderloin. Their so-called “reviews” are just gears in the machine, and the Challenger Hellcat is nothing but a pollution-spewing carrot designed to lure the mindless masses (who couldn’t give a candy-cane-colored shit what we have to say) into Dodge showrooms where they will drool on command over a useless wad of elephant spooge like the Journey, then happily bend over and smile as they take their $600 car payment and worthless extended warranty right up the service entrance. Everything is useless and everyone sucks. And when I say everything and everyone, of course I mean everything and everyone except you, my readers, the only people endowed with common sense and good looks and acceptably-sized genitalia.
You can read more of Bick Skruth at TrueShitAboutCars.com.
Bick Skruth is an experienced racer, author, and fecal management technician. He contributes to several automotive-related web sites as well as our own.
Hello, Only People Who Matter! I’ve just returned from Willow Springs Raceway, this time to drive the Porsche’s new Macan. Ah, to be back at Willow, where I once broke the track record and won twelve races in a row in race a series you’ve probably never heard of because it’s so advanced. I’ll spare you the details, just know that I was, and still am, awesome.
Anyway, Porsche was afraid of letting us unleash the true track potential of their 400 hp grocery-getter, so they insisted that we be babysat by a bevvy of racing drivers. I drew two-time LeMans winner and three-time ALMS GT2 champ Patrick Long. I didn’t want to show the kid up, so I toned my driving down a notch or three. But you should have seen his face when I intentionally carried too much speed into Turn 4 and allowed the Macan to understeer to within inches of the wall! He was so angry that he insisted I get off the track immediately. No matter as having pushed the car hard enough to engage the transmission’s limp mode, I had completed my evaluation of the vehicle. I did tell Patrick I’d take him on any time, him in his favorite Porsche versus me in my awesome Accord, but he didn’t answer. Perhaps he didn’t hear my challenge because I was taking off my helmet as I mumbled it. Cockdonkey.
After our time on the track it was time for the long drive back to Los Angeles. My drive partner was some useless so-called writer from an increasingly-irrelevant print publication. It’s really difficult to properly evaluate a vehicle with one of these dickwashers in the passenger seat, what with the constant screaming, crying, and calling for their mommy. Here I was, trying to test the Macan’s on- and off-road abilities simultaneously by taking corners at a hundred plus with two wheels in the dirt shoulder, and he goes and accuses me of being reckless! I guess I shouldn’t expect any better from a guy who has taken five “performance driving courses” and yet still couldn’t run the Macan’s tires down to the steel cords in under a hundred miles the way I did. Assbounder.
So what did I think of the Macan? I thought it was unbelievable, as in it’s unbelievable that any suburban mom would have even the slightest bit of interest in a car like this. Seriously, if an awesomely able helmsmith like me can barely keep this thing on the road at 13/10ths, what makes Porsche think that Jane Housewife with her 2.3 kids and her fake tits and her sexually unsatisfying marriage will be able to do it? Hell, she’d be better off with my two-door Accord, which will out-drive any vehicle on the planet at any price on any road in any weather in any outfit with any aging-rocker hairdo as long as I’m at the wheel. Not that I expect any of my colleagues will be brave enough to talk about this estrogen-charged elephant on the room lest they lose their seat on the Gravy Train to Presstripville. Only I have the skill and the honesty to report these things skillfully and honestly. Shitfiddlers.
Of course, it really doesn’t matter what we say, because automotive journalism is dead. We are dinosaurs, pen-wielding freeloaders being flown hither and thither by a community of ass-kissers in cheap shiny suits desperate to convince their corporate taskmasters that there is a sensible business justification for them to continue getting shitfaced on the company dime. The truth is that the well-heeled small-dicked narcissists who can afford to buy the little woman an $80,000 compact CUV don’t bother to read the shit we write, and the drooling Neanderthals who read car reviews as a form of entertainment can’t afford an $80,000 compact CUV because they are too busy living above their parents’ garage and jerking off to photographs of the Aventador instead of getting out into the world to make a decent living. The exception is the brilliantly bright people who read my web site, who are the most talented and usefully amazing people in the known universe. Pissmunchers.
You can read more of Bick Skruth at TrueShitAboutCars.com.
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