funny kill story
#1
11-21-2001 | 02:00 PM
Thread Starter
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Senior Member
Joined: Aug 2001
Posts: 241
Likes: 0
From: Southern Maryland
funny kill story
got this off of the corrall....laughed my **** off..enjoy
borrowed my wife's Geo Metro last night. One liter of raw power, three cylinders of asphalt-tearing terror on thirteen-inch rims.
It's stock, alright, nothing done to it, but it
pushes the barely 2000 pounds of Metro around
with AUTHORITY. I'm always catching mopeds and
18-wheelers by surprise. I was headed back from
Baskin Robbins with my manly triple-latte
cappuccino blast ("No Cinnamon, ma'am, I take it
BLACK"), when I stopped at a streetlight. As the
Metro throbbed its throaty idle around me, I
sipped my bold beverage and wiped the white froth
off my stiff upper lip. I was minding my own
business, but then I heard a rev from the next
lane. I turned, made eye contact, then let my
eyes trace over the competition. Ford Festiva- a
late model, could be trouble. Low profile tires,
curb feelers, and schoolbus-yellow paint. Yep, a
hot rod, for sure. The howl of his motor snapped
my reverie, and I looked back into the driver's
eyes, nodded, then blipped my own throttle. As I
tugged on my driving gloves and slipped on my
sunglasses (gotta look cool to be fast, and I am
*damn* cool, hence...), the night was split with
the sound of seven screaming cylinders. Then the
light turned... I almost had him out of the hole,
my three pounding cylinders thrusting me at least
a millimeter back into my seat, smoke pouring from
my front right tire... but my unlimited slip differential was letting me down! I saw in the
corner of my eye, a yellow snout gaining, and I
heard the roar of his four cylinders. He slung by
me, right front wheel juddering against the pavement, and he flashed me a smile as his .7
extra liters of motor stretched its legs. I kept
my foot gamely in it, though, waiting for the
CHECK ENGINE light to blink on in the one-gauge
(no tachometer here!) instrument panel. I saw a
glimpse of chrome under his bumper, and knew the
ugly truth... He was running a custom exhaust-
probably a 2-into-1 dual exhaust...maybe even
cutouts! Damn his hot-rod soul! The old lady
passing us on the crosswalk cast a dirty look in
our boy-racer direction. Yet still I persisted,
with my three pumping pistons singing a heady
high-pitched song, wound fully out. Though only a
few handfuls of seconds had passed, we were
nearing the crosswalk at the other side of the
intersection, and I heard the note of his engine
change as he made his shift to second, and I saw
his grin in his rearview mirror fade as he missed
the shift! I rocketed by, shifting, and nursed the
clutch gently in to keep from bogging, keeping
my motor spinning hot and pulling me ahead, now
trailing a cloud of stinking clutch smoke. Not
ready to give up so easily, he left his foot in
it, revving, and I heard one wheel *almost*
chirp as he finally found second and dropped the
clutch. We careened over the crosswalk, now going
at least 15 miles per hour. A bicyclist passed us,
but intent on the race as we were, neither of us
batted an eye. He pulled slowly abreast of me, and
neck and neck, we made the shift to third, the
scream of motors deafening all pedestrians within
a five foot circle. He nosed ahead as we passed 30
miles an hour, then eased in front of me,
taunting, as we shifted into fourth. I was staring
up the dual 6" chrome tips of his exhaust,
snarling, my cappuccino forgotten, as he lifted a
little to take the next corner. I saw my
opportunity, and counting on the innate agility of
my trusty steed, I pulled wide into the number two
lane and kept my foot buried in carpet. Slowly, I
inched around him, feeling my Metro roll slowly to
the left as I came abreast in the midst of this
gradual sweeping turn. I felt the Geo ease onto
its suspension stops, and felt the right rear
wheel slowly leave the ground - no matter, though,
because my drive wheels, up front, were pulling me
through the corner, and around the Festiva.The
Ford driver beat his wheel in rage as my wife's
car eased past him on the outside...
borrowed my wife's Geo Metro last night. One liter of raw power, three cylinders of asphalt-tearing terror on thirteen-inch rims.
It's stock, alright, nothing done to it, but it
pushes the barely 2000 pounds of Metro around
with AUTHORITY. I'm always catching mopeds and
18-wheelers by surprise. I was headed back from
Baskin Robbins with my manly triple-latte
cappuccino blast ("No Cinnamon, ma'am, I take it
BLACK"), when I stopped at a streetlight. As the
Metro throbbed its throaty idle around me, I
sipped my bold beverage and wiped the white froth
off my stiff upper lip. I was minding my own
business, but then I heard a rev from the next
lane. I turned, made eye contact, then let my
eyes trace over the competition. Ford Festiva- a
late model, could be trouble. Low profile tires,
curb feelers, and schoolbus-yellow paint. Yep, a
hot rod, for sure. The howl of his motor snapped
my reverie, and I looked back into the driver's
eyes, nodded, then blipped my own throttle. As I
tugged on my driving gloves and slipped on my
sunglasses (gotta look cool to be fast, and I am
*damn* cool, hence...), the night was split with
the sound of seven screaming cylinders. Then the
light turned... I almost had him out of the hole,
my three pounding cylinders thrusting me at least
a millimeter back into my seat, smoke pouring from
my front right tire... but my unlimited slip differential was letting me down! I saw in the
corner of my eye, a yellow snout gaining, and I
heard the roar of his four cylinders. He slung by
me, right front wheel juddering against the pavement, and he flashed me a smile as his .7
extra liters of motor stretched its legs. I kept
my foot gamely in it, though, waiting for the
CHECK ENGINE light to blink on in the one-gauge
(no tachometer here!) instrument panel. I saw a
glimpse of chrome under his bumper, and knew the
ugly truth... He was running a custom exhaust-
probably a 2-into-1 dual exhaust...maybe even
cutouts! Damn his hot-rod soul! The old lady
passing us on the crosswalk cast a dirty look in
our boy-racer direction. Yet still I persisted,
with my three pumping pistons singing a heady
high-pitched song, wound fully out. Though only a
few handfuls of seconds had passed, we were
nearing the crosswalk at the other side of the
intersection, and I heard the note of his engine
change as he made his shift to second, and I saw
his grin in his rearview mirror fade as he missed
the shift! I rocketed by, shifting, and nursed the
clutch gently in to keep from bogging, keeping
my motor spinning hot and pulling me ahead, now
trailing a cloud of stinking clutch smoke. Not
ready to give up so easily, he left his foot in
it, revving, and I heard one wheel *almost*
chirp as he finally found second and dropped the
clutch. We careened over the crosswalk, now going
at least 15 miles per hour. A bicyclist passed us,
but intent on the race as we were, neither of us
batted an eye. He pulled slowly abreast of me, and
neck and neck, we made the shift to third, the
scream of motors deafening all pedestrians within
a five foot circle. He nosed ahead as we passed 30
miles an hour, then eased in front of me,
taunting, as we shifted into fourth. I was staring
up the dual 6" chrome tips of his exhaust,
snarling, my cappuccino forgotten, as he lifted a
little to take the next corner. I saw my
opportunity, and counting on the innate agility of
my trusty steed, I pulled wide into the number two
lane and kept my foot buried in carpet. Slowly, I
inched around him, feeling my Metro roll slowly to
the left as I came abreast in the midst of this
gradual sweeping turn. I felt the Geo ease onto
its suspension stops, and felt the right rear
wheel slowly leave the ground - no matter, though,
because my drive wheels, up front, were pulling me
through the corner, and around the Festiva.The
Ford driver beat his wheel in rage as my wife's
car eased past him on the outside...
#5
11-21-2001 | 06:11 PM
Senior Member
Joined: Jun 2001
Posts: 868
Likes: 0
From: Where I am
LMAO Big time
Brad-sounds to me like it's time to park the red L and get that real muscle machine ready. Things like a 6-inch tailpipe, 22-inch wheels with 1/4-inch sidewallls and some bright yellow windshield wipers. I feel the same way when I drive my ovarian van (Caravan). I just go looking for these women with 30 kids in the back to see if they want to get it on.
Happy Thanksgiving Brad and everyone else here.
http://www.madblast.com/binladen.htm
Happy Thanksgiving Brad and everyone else here.
http://www.madblast.com/binladen.htm