Joined
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2,207 Posts
Smoking--as in exhaust from a good old fashioned oil burner like my PSD.
[Warning: Humor impending]
I run a chip and quite a few mods, but I actually do make sure I don't run down the road stinking up the joint with clouds of black smoke like you usually see from over-fueled diesels.
Every now and then, though . . . . :evilbat:
Example: I'm sorry, I just refuse to be brainwashed by the idiotic concept that bicycles, a 35-pound human-powered contrivance that has a top speed of 35MPH in average hands, belongs anywhere in the middle of traffic on public streets in a large city like Houston. And, God help us, we are just loaded to the gills here with Granola-munching, sexually ambiguous pedal-weenies who, apparently all being independently wealthy and not having to work or have anyplace in particular they have to be during the day, choose to ride in the middle of the fargin' street during the work day! It's dumb, it holds up traffic and its dangerous.
So, at least once a week, you get trapped behind one of these packs of bicycling metrosexual Dingoes and they just tool along, not a care in the world. This is usually when you are going somewhere for your job and need to get there in a hurry. Indeed, you can feel their smug satisfaction because they know they are gumming up the works and it brings a smile to their Red-Bull stained lips to know they are holding up the Shitkicker in the evil fossil-fuel powered behemoth behind them (apparently it doesn't occur to them this wastes more of Mother Nature's Black Gold Dino Squeezin's in the process).
I confess I have a hard time relating in the first place, since I personally am not secure enough in my manhood to run around in those Spandex cycling shorts--outfits even Elton John would say, ". . . too gay for me, honey." Further, I wonder if the men-folk among the cycling eco-dweebs have perused the apparent, alarming association between testicular cancer, impotence and general genital mischief associated with riding around with bicycle seat up your arse all day. Have you seen the size of those seats? My 3 year old has an ass too big for those things.
So, what does that have to do with Eau de Diesel? Well, every now and then, when you finally can break out of bicycle-induced paralysis and get around them, it's nice to dial the chip over to max fuel and nail it. Black clouds issue forth from my 5" exhaust as though the eternal Furnaces of Hell themselves had opened up to forge more angry, non-politically correct hunks of steel like my Superduty to cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!
As I watch in my mirror the receding Pedal Pushers gag and choke, waving madly and futilely at their fake-tanned faces, various bugs falling dead out of the sky like snow on their helmeted heads, it gives my little black heart a warm and cozy feeling that I'll be too far up the road to make out all the single-digit salutes I know I'm getting by the time the smoke clears.
Mr. Spandex Wearing Yogurt Drinker, this one's for you: beer
[/humor end]
[Warning: Humor impending]
I run a chip and quite a few mods, but I actually do make sure I don't run down the road stinking up the joint with clouds of black smoke like you usually see from over-fueled diesels.
Every now and then, though . . . . :evilbat:
Example: I'm sorry, I just refuse to be brainwashed by the idiotic concept that bicycles, a 35-pound human-powered contrivance that has a top speed of 35MPH in average hands, belongs anywhere in the middle of traffic on public streets in a large city like Houston. And, God help us, we are just loaded to the gills here with Granola-munching, sexually ambiguous pedal-weenies who, apparently all being independently wealthy and not having to work or have anyplace in particular they have to be during the day, choose to ride in the middle of the fargin' street during the work day! It's dumb, it holds up traffic and its dangerous.
So, at least once a week, you get trapped behind one of these packs of bicycling metrosexual Dingoes and they just tool along, not a care in the world. This is usually when you are going somewhere for your job and need to get there in a hurry. Indeed, you can feel their smug satisfaction because they know they are gumming up the works and it brings a smile to their Red-Bull stained lips to know they are holding up the Shitkicker in the evil fossil-fuel powered behemoth behind them (apparently it doesn't occur to them this wastes more of Mother Nature's Black Gold Dino Squeezin's in the process).
I confess I have a hard time relating in the first place, since I personally am not secure enough in my manhood to run around in those Spandex cycling shorts--outfits even Elton John would say, ". . . too gay for me, honey." Further, I wonder if the men-folk among the cycling eco-dweebs have perused the apparent, alarming association between testicular cancer, impotence and general genital mischief associated with riding around with bicycle seat up your arse all day. Have you seen the size of those seats? My 3 year old has an ass too big for those things.
So, what does that have to do with Eau de Diesel? Well, every now and then, when you finally can break out of bicycle-induced paralysis and get around them, it's nice to dial the chip over to max fuel and nail it. Black clouds issue forth from my 5" exhaust as though the eternal Furnaces of Hell themselves had opened up to forge more angry, non-politically correct hunks of steel like my Superduty to cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!
As I watch in my mirror the receding Pedal Pushers gag and choke, waving madly and futilely at their fake-tanned faces, various bugs falling dead out of the sky like snow on their helmeted heads, it gives my little black heart a warm and cozy feeling that I'll be too far up the road to make out all the single-digit salutes I know I'm getting by the time the smoke clears.
Mr. Spandex Wearing Yogurt Drinker, this one's for you: beer
[/humor end]
