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Years ago, I was driving along the Marin Headlands, that narrow strip of highway that winds up the coast north of San Francisco, when a Rolls Royce passed going the other way. This was not your ordinary run-of-the-mill Rolls: some two-and-a-half-ton barge with all the performance and luxury of a Lexus for five times the price. Instead, it was one of the models from between the Wars, with elegant coachwork, a bright silver radiator the size of a Greek temple, and four separate curved fenders cutting proudly through the breeze. The car was in flawless shape. Its body was spotless, the metalwork gleamed, and that paint job was something to die for. An army of detailers must have spent weeks getting the thing ready for the road.

I might have forgotten the encounter – one of those weird incidents that happens here in California – but on the way home, I spotted the Rolls again. This time it was parked in a turnoff while its driver and passengers got out to look at the City. They were even more flamboyant than their vehicle: two perfect couples straight out of some fashion magazine. Their hair styling alone must have cost more than an SCCA-approved roll bar. For the price of those shoes, you could have picked up a very nice set of tires. And their outfits would have paid for the engine swap of your choice. I never found out who they were – celebs, perhaps, or a group of high-powered models who’d borrowed the car after the shoot was over – but whoever they might have been, they were watching the rest of us go by with expressions that seemed to say, “Yes, we know how cool we are. Don’t you wish you were this cool too?”

I vowed revenge. I vowed that one day, I would become even cooler than those four fancy media types with their classic Rolls. And now I have succeeded. For now I have… a Spyder!
 

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Thoroughly enjoyed this! Awesome imagery, haha.
 

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You have way too much free time!!
 

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Years ago, I was driving along a cornfield , that shit that grows in fields by the highway throughout the midwest , when a farm truck filled with ammonia was going the other way. This was not your ordinary farm truck filled with ammonia : some seven-and-a-half-ton barge with all the dead bugs, weeds and gopher parts attached to the outside. Instead, it was one of the models from the drug Wars, with elegant coachwork, a second trailer full of cold medicine, a camper section with a cooktop smoke stack , and four separate curved fenders cutting proudly through the breeze. The farm truck filled with ammonia was in flawless shape. Its body was spotless, the metalwork gleamed, and that paint job was something to die for. An army of meth heads must have spent weeks getting the thing ready for the road.

I might have forgotten the encounter – one of those weird incidents that happens here in Indiana – but on the way home, I spotted the farm truck filled with ammonia again. This time it was parked in a turnoff while its driver and passengers got out to cook up a huge batch of meth. They were even more flamboyant than their vehicle: two perfect couples straight out of some fashion magazine. Their hair styling alone must have cost more than an a trash bag full of rock . For the price of those shoes, you could have picked up TWO trash bags full of rock . And their outfits would have paid for THREE trash bags full of rock . I never found out who they were – celebs, perhaps, or a group of high-powered meth heads who’d borrowed the car after they shot their dealer in the balls but whoever they might have been, they were watching the rest of us go by with expressions that seemed to say, “Yes, we know how cool we are. Don’t you wish you were thisHIGH TOO

I vowed revenge. I vowed that one day, I would become even MORE FREAKING TWEAKED than those four fancy media types with their classic farm truck filled with ammonia . And now I have succeeded. For now I have… a Spyder!
*slow clap*
 

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Years ago, I was driving along the Marin Headlands, that narrow strip of highway that winds up the coast north of San Francisco, when a Rolls Royce passed going the other way. This was not your ordinary run-of-the-mill Rolls: some two-and-a-half-ton barge with all the performance and luxury of a Lexus for five times the price. Instead, it was one of the models from between the Wars, with elegant coachwork, a bright silver radiator the size of a Greek temple, and four separate curved fenders cutting proudly through the breeze. The car was in flawless shape. Its body was spotless, the metalwork gleamed, and that paint job was something to die for. An army of detailers must have spent weeks getting the thing ready for the road.

I might have forgotten the encounter – one of those weird incidents that happens here in California – but on the way home, I spotted the Rolls again. This time it was parked in a turnoff while its driver and passengers got out to look at the City. They were even more flamboyant than their vehicle: two perfect couples straight out of some fashion magazine. Their hair styling alone must have cost more than an SCCA-approved roll bar. For the price of those shoes, you could have picked up a very nice set of tires. And their outfits would have paid for the engine swap of your choice. I never found out who they were – celebs, perhaps, or a group of high-powered models who’d borrowed the car after the shoot was over – but whoever they might have been, they were watching the rest of us go by with expressions that seemed to say, “Yes, we know how cool we are. Don’t you wish you were this cool too?”

I vowed revenge. I vowed that one day, I would become even cooler than those four fancy media types with their classic Rolls. And now I have succeeded. For now I have… a Shaguar and penis pump!
 

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Years ago, I was driving North, on my way home from work, in my ’76 Honda Civic. I was traveling along that narrow strip of highway that winds up north of San Luis Obispo, when a Rolls Royce was parked alongside the road, with a REALLY old fart out changing the Tire. This was your ordinary run-of-the-mill Rolls. The car was in flawless shape. Its body was spotless, the metalwork gleamed, and as I approached the driver to help, I noticed the Car was in better shape than any of its occupants, as they were showing their age more than the car was. She was sitting in the Back seat, noticeably younger than him, but old non the less..

I might have forgotten the encounter – one of those weird incidents that happens here in California – but when I got home, I discussed the situation with my Wife. She informed me he was a very rich L.A. Transplant to the Area, and she was a trophy wife, ex playboy bunny, from long ago.. she knew them both..

A few weeks later their names were in the Newspaper, as he was divorcing her.. and she had Nothing..

I have succeeded, For I have dumped my ’76 Honda Civic, and I have my Spyder!
 
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