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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Hi, beautiful intelligent people! I’ve just come back from driving the Jaguar F-TYPE Coupe at Willow Springs International Raceway. It’s always good fun to share the track with a bunch of spoiled automotive writers who brag about their racing credentials and then get out there and run a line that looks like Michael J. Fox’s autograph. I could have outrun every single one of those guys in my Honda, blindfolded with my hands and feet bound and with a dwarf giving me a blowjob, but of course I didn’t drive anywhere near that fast because I don’t want to show everyone up. I did manage to smoke the brakes on a few cars and flat-spot the tires on a couple more, but that’s because I’m awesome. And yet Jaguar took this to mean that I was “driving too aggressively” and asked me to leave the track. Jacktards.
After the track it was off to dinner with the geriatric NACATOTY shuffle-steerers and the ever-more-irrelevant print magazine “journalists”. It’s always amusing to sit down and hear these guys compare the evening’s fare to the Bentley breakfast in Buenos Aires or the S-Class spread in Stuttgart. Truth is, you could substitute shit for the shiitakes on their filet mignon and most of these wannabes wouldn’t know the difference. I’ve enjoyed better meals in Malaysian whorehouses. No, seriously, the food in Malaysian whorehouses is really good. Not that my “colleagues” would know this. Dickwagons.
So how is the Jaguar F-TYPE Coupe? It amazes me how journalists get all excited by a loud exhaust and some fake wood on the dash. Truth is this is just another English shitpile that will generate enough warranty claims to fund the defense budget of Uganda, but the so-called “journalists” don’t care because by then they’ll be busy with the Panamera preview in Peru or the Sonata soiree in Switzerland, and even if they did attempt to feign some interest in the plight of the real-world buyer with whom they are so desperately out of touch, they’d never risk terminating that next trip to Tunisia by writing anything bad about the car. Yes it’s fast but the truth is a skilled helmsmith like myself can make better time in my amazingly awesome Accord, the most perfect car ever crafted by man, not that I would want to do that of course because then I would embarrass the Jaguar engineers who seem to think they’ve created something truly excellent. Titwankers.
Not that any of this matters, because automotive journalism is dead. It’s just a bunch of PR flacks flying a bunch of overfed hacks around the world so the can write fancy stories telling acne-faced 19-year-olds who can’t afford a car anyway how awesome their lives are. The truth is that the car buying public doesn’t read anything we write. They will happily drive whatever piece of automotive mediocrity they can get for $99 down and $249 a month with free extended warranty and paint sealant. The general public are mindless sheep and don’t give a green shit about cars, the exception being the people who read my web site who are the brightest and sweetest-smelling people in the world. Pigfuckers.
You can read more of Bick Skruth at TrueShitAboutCars.com.