Last Minute Halloween Help

If you are like me, you always wait until the last minute to come up with things like birthday gifts and Halloween costumes. I am forever thinking of neat costumes and gifts but forever procrastinating until it's too late to do anything but rummage through the closet for whatever lies in the deep recesses therein, or making a last minute dash to Target. Always on the lookout for ways to help my blogosphere friends, I came across these fantastic Halloween masks on the Huffpost and I thought I would share them with you so that you can relax, knowing you will be the envy of all your friends. All you have to do is click on the image, print it, and follow the instructions on the mask. Good luck. WARNING: This is some scary stuff, not for the faint of heart.

You can go trick-or-treating as Blago! With this mask, you can get extra candy for doing nothing.

Hey, if you're really feeling piggish, you can go as Kanye West. That way you don't have to worry about walking up and knocking on all those doors, you can just steal candy from little girls.

You can go as everybody's favorite buffoon, Glenn Beck. With this mask you can just act stupid and no one will expect anything different.

This is the scariest mask of all and should be worn only if you are willing to do anything, I mean "anything", for candy.

An Equal Opportunity Blog

Since my last post was about MaryJane I thought I might give equal time to my next favorite consumptive sin... liquor. Now we all know the good and evils of the brew so I thought it might be helpful to expose some of our fellow imbibers who, no matter how hard they try, simply can't seem to avoid the long arm of the law.

62-year-old Dennis LeRoy Anderson was charged with a DUI after crashing his lawnmower-powered La-Z-Boy into a parked car. The "vehicle" was equipped with side view mirrors, a boombox and cup holders.

David Allen Rodgers was driving the 'Steppin Out Dance Studio' float in the Christmas parade in Anderson, South Carolina, when he pulled out of line to pass another float and then sped off. Rodgers was, of course, drunk when he drove the float and its performers three miles away from the parade route before being apprehended by police.

Melissa Byrum York went for a midnight horseback ride totally blitzed and rammed into a police car. When the police tried to take her into custody for a DUI she tried to jump off the animal but caught her foot in a stirrup.

In England two drunk men tried to hitch a ride on a bottlenose dolphin after leaving a party extremely intoxicated. Michael Jukes and Daniel Buck were arrested for harassing the local celeb "Dave the Dolphin" after deciding to hop in the English Channel to get a lift home.

Marijuana: How much longer are we going to put up with this shit?

In this morning's fish wrapper there was actually an opinion by national columnist Kathleen Parker that, "It's time to legalize marijuana." The article hits on all of the sane reasons to legalize pot... the punishment is worse than the crime, thousands of Americans have criminal records for doing nothing more than smoking it, the "War on Drugs" is a complete failure and farce, there are medical advantages to using pot, etc. While all of those are good reasons for pot being legalized, I have another reason altogether for its legalization... I like it and it's nobody's God-damned business what I do in the privacy of my own home!! That goes for all drugs for that matter. Your right to swing your arm ends at the tip of my nose. Other than that, what you do is your own business and none of mine. Extrapolated that means, so long as what you do does no harm to others it's your own business and not the government's nor anyone else's. Over the course of my life I have smoked pot and dabbled with other forbidden things. Along the way, I have also consumed cases of scotch, gin, vodka and wine. Thankfully, I've avoided cigarettes but I do love a good cigar. I can't see that any one of these things is any worse than the other and all of them have given me some happiness, which is my constitutional right to pursue. I am alert and healthy thanks to some modicum of common sense which directs me to a good diet and exercise of mind and body. I am a college graduate, I have always been gainfully employed in responsible, management positions, I have raised two good daughters who are now good mothers, and I believe I've been a good friend and neighbor, in spite of the mind altering and coroding substances I have "abused" all these years. I am fed up with the bull shit "Police Industrial Complex" that thrives on the misery of others. It's way past time we put those mother fuckers out of business. This is not a moral issue or even a public health issue... it is a civil rights issue and one we should all be raising hell about. Period.

By-line: Soupy Sales dead at 83

Soupy Sales is one of those enigmatic characters who are a presence in your youth that you can never quite get a grip on. At least not in the Deep South where our exposure to him was fleeting, at best. His death was front page news in the Times, but Section B, page 3, a day later in the local fish wrapper. According to the Times: Soupy Sales, whose zany television routines turned the smashing of a pie to the face into a madcap art form, died Thursday night. He was 83. Cavorting with his puppet sidekicks White Fang, Black Tooth, Pookie the Lion and Hobart and Reba, the heads in the pot-bellied stove, transforming himself into the private detective Philo Kvetch, and playing host to the ever-present “nut at the door,” Soupy Sales became a television favorite of youngsters and an anarchic comedy hero for teenagers and college students. Clad in a top hat, sweater and bow tie, shuffling through his Mouse dance, he reached his slapstick heyday in the mid-1960s on “The Soupy Sales Show,” a widely syndicated program based at WNEW-TV in New York. Some 20,000 pies were hurled at Soupy Sales or at visitors to his TV shows in the 1950s and ’60s, by his own count. The victims included Frank Sinatra, Tony Curtis and Jerry Lewis, all of whom turned up just for the honor of being creamed. Somehow, Soupy is identified as being Jewish from New York when he was actually born in North Carolina. His last name was Supman, which was mispronounced as Soupman and therefore, his stage name. I was about 13 years old when his television show was finally aired in Baja Georgia. Back in the day we only had 2 1/2 TV channels to watch, CBS, NBC and, ABC if the stars and rabbit ears were aligned, so whatever was on any of them was what you watched. I don't remember which one Soupy was on but I do remember occasionally sitting down to watch him and wondering what the hell it was all about. It was too childish for adults and too adult for kids. Then came the famous skit where he got close to the camera and whispered so that mommy and daddy couldn't hear and he urged... "All you kids go into mommy and daddy's room and look in their wallets and take out all that dirty green paper with pictures of old men with beards on them. Put them in an envelope and mail them to me, Soupy Sales, and I'll send you a post card from a beautiful south Pacific island." From that point forward, I was a fan. It was years later, in retrospect, that I finally understood and appreciated what he was all about. And now, many years later, I realize what an enormous impact he had on all of television. He pretty much gave birth to irreverent comics such as Letterman. A tip of the hat to you Soupy. Rest in Peace.

These Guys Are Nuts

As most of you who hang around C's place know, Mr. C is a gearhead. Don't know how it happened, I guess like most American boys I grew up in the automobile culture and with a fascination of all things automobili and loved racing from the get-go. Many a happy Saturday night was spent at the local dirt oval watching the good-ole-boys banging wheels and drinking whiskey. The excitement and danger of auto racing at any level can be intoxicating. From stock cars I soon graduated to Formula 1 and to this day am an avid fan. F1 cars are unbelievably fast and it boggles the mind how quick a driver's reflexes have to be to handle these fantastic machines. I have a computer F1 simulator and even in the comfort of my study it's almost impossible to match the speed of the real cars. But as fast and dangerous as F1 is, World Rally is in a class by itself. These guys are just plain nuts. Modern World Rally isn't at all like amateur Rally where you start at Point A and arrive at Point B in a prescribed amount of time, obeying the law all the while. World Rally is whoever gets from Point A to Point B first wins. However, like all Rally, two people occupy the car, the driver and the navigator. Both of these positions have become highly professional and, understandably, the two form strong bonds and often spend their entire careers together. The cars are super modified compacts like the Ford Focus, Subaru XRS and a little Citroen I'm not familiar with. The 2 litre engines pump out about 350hp through all four wheels. The cars weigh 1,200lbs. They race all over the world, but mostly in Europe and the Mediterranean, with occasional excursions to places like Australia and Argentina. They seek out the most remote back roads on which to race but usually start or end in a populated place. What makes them crazy? They drive at speeds up to 170mph on these country lanes and often lose control which results in the most spectacular crashes. You ain't seen nothin' until you've seen one of these boys flying down a single-lane Irish road at 150mph past families, farms and fields. The fans are even crazier than the drivers as they line the roadway, crowding in as closely as possible, some of them playing the game of reaching out and trying to touch the cars as they speed by, much like the Tour de France. Remarkably, there are few injuries and deaths. This is not a sport for the faint of heart and many other drivers, including F1, consider it the most difficult racing of them all. Like F1, WRC is almost unknown in the U.S. however, there is one cable channel that carries replays and it's definitely an entertaining hour. Check it out.

Viet Nam - What the hell was it all about?

Article in today’s NY Times:

PHAN THIET, Vietnam — It may be the most capitalist enterprise in Communist Vietnam — by the rich and for the rich: a proliferation of golf courses that is displacing thousands of farmers and devouring the rice fields the country depends on.

The Dai Lai golf course drove thousands off their farmland

Until last year, according to experts who have done the calculations, licenses for new courses were being issued at an average of one a week, for a total of more than 140 projects around the country.

Promoters created the idea of a “Ho Chi Minh Golf Trail,” a series of eight courses whose label is as good a sign as any of where Vietnam seems to be headed — its heroic wartime past redefined as a sales pitch. 2,000,000+ Vietnamese civilians killed 1,100,000 N. Vietnamese soldiers killed 184,000 S. Vietnamese soldiers killed

If all those projects were completed, the number of courses would approach that of golf-mad South Korea, where there are close to 200. It would still fall well short of China, which has more than 300, and would be nowhere near the number in the United States, which has about 16,000 courses, or even Florida, with 1,260.

2,984,000 Americans served in Viet Nam. 58,156 Americans killed 303,724 Americans wounded 75,000 Americans severely disabled

“Developers and foreign investors are saying they want to make the country a tourist destination, and to do that you need to offer more amenities like golf,” said Kurt Greve, the American general manager of the Ocean Dunes Golf Club and the Dalat Palace Golf Club. Most of those tourists would come from elsewhere in Asia, especially South Korea and Japan, where golf courses are hugely overcrowded.

500+/- Vietnamese civilians murdered by US forces in My Lie massacre.

Many of the new projects seem to have to do more with capitalism than with sport. Taxes on golf courses are lower than those on other forms of development, and many of the projects appear to be disguised real estate ventures.

“Golf courses are for rich people, account for vast areas of land, cause pollution and affect food security, so taxes should be appropriately high,” he told the newspaper Tuoi Tre in July.

And when rich people play, it appears that farmers and villagers pay the price.

It would seem that when the rich people play... we all pay.

Here's To You Peach

Those of you familiar with The Peach Tart know that this charming Southern sweetheart excels at discovering unique gifts and accessories for women. On her site can be found womanly advice and wonderful things for boobs, makeup, and beyond. Well, it's time we men have equal time. After all, who represents us? Who looks after our best interests? No one, that's who. For far too long we men have been neglected, unappreciated and downright trod upon. Well, as of today, all that has changed. From this day forward, Termites of Sin will earnestly endeavor to seek out and publicize important information and products for men. Yea, even products for "real men." So, with this noble mission in mind, we begin with a necessary accessory for those of you who are, shall I say, graying at the temples. Now, with your bra firmly in place, you can go forth in confidence with a manly voice and avoid the pitfall of the gentleman who visited his doctor because his voice was changing for the worse. Man: Doctor, for some reason my voice is getting high and squeaky. I've just been promoted and my job requires me to address large groups of potential clients. I can't do that with this voice, they'll laugh at me. Following a thorough examination the doctor determined that the problem was the man's dangling testicles and ever-growing penis, now 12" long. Doctor: I'm afraid the problem is your dangling testicles and huge penis. Their weight is such that they are pulling your internal organs downward and stretching your vocal cords which is the cause of your high-pitched voice. Man: Well I can't go on like this. I really need this new promotion. Can anything be done? Doctor: (thoughtfully) There's this wonderful new product called the Nut Bra that can handle the testicles, but the penis, that's a little more complicated. However, I believe it's large enough that we could surgically remove a section in the center. That would take off some more weight and should do the trick. Man: Will it affect my ability to, you know, satisfy my wife? Doctor: I should think, given that you will still be extra large, I should think it would make no difference whatsoever. Sure enough, following the surgery the man's voice was restored to it's normal manly baritone and his new job was going just fine. However, there was a problem, so he revisited his doctor. Man: Doc, the operation was super and I love having my voice back, but... my wife is extremely unhappy and threatens to leave me if my penis is not restored. Do you think you can put the piece back in place? Doctor: (In high squeaky voice) I'm sorry, but that would be impossible.

Assume The Position

Yesterday’s New York Times ran these three headlines side by side. JPMorgan Chase Reports Strong 3rd Quarter Profit of $3.6 Billion Federal Pay Czar Tries Again to Trim A.I.G. Bonuses Still On The Job, But Making Half As Much

When this melt-down began last October, I commented at the time, “Those bastards know exactly what they’re doing. They have raped their companies dry, stashed their cash in off-shore banks, and the government is going to bail them out.” Sure enough, that’s exactly what’s happened. It happened during the Great Depression and every major recession since, but I particularly remember the Savings and Loan debacle of the 80’s, where the money grubbers, such as George W. Bush, drained the S&L’s dry and let them default so that the FDIC (Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation) would have to bail out individual depositors at 40 cents on the dollar. I watched, and it became clear, as corporate raiders were allowed hostile take-over of sound corporations and subsequently allowed to raid the employees’ pension benefit funds as “assets” that could be used against debts, that the money grubbers would soon destroy everything honest Americans had worked for generations to build. There is no more clear example of this than American Harvester Corporation. American Harvester was one of the most respected companies and brands on earth. Naive and unaware, they allowed hostile investors on Wall Street to capture a majority of the stock. The investors immediately began dismembering the corporation. They sold off the assets and left the employee pension fund to cover the liabilities, which bankrupted the fund. (Something made legal during the Reagan presidency.) Entire families were devastated. In some cases, three generations were devastated. The son lost his job. The father lost his job and his pension. The grandfather lost his pension. They lost everything they had worked their entire lives for and now live in a community where, with collapse of the major employer, there are basically no other economic opportunities. These are the people who wave the flag, who believe the lies and dogma. It isn’t their fault. They are good family types. The kind who believe that people are basically good, because they and everyone they know are basically good. They are simple people who only want to pull their share of the load and trust that their leaders will fulfill their promises. You had better understand and believe… this is a class war! It always has been. From feudal times when we were all slaves to a king, through the industrial revolution when we were all chattel to an industrial baron, to the present day where the money grubbers are doing everything they can to strip us of any chance of financial security, this is US against THEM. If you are one of those families with incomes in the $200,000 a year range, YOU are on the front line. You are not one of them. Not even close. You are the buffer between them and the unwashed masses and you are totally vulnerable and expendable. But YOU are the major roadblock to dealing with them, because you have been duped into believing you are one of them and somehow superior to your less-fortunate neighbor. You better wake up people, or assume the position, because it's here.

Termites: Signs of the Times

Even more proof we're done for, with a few points of light.

This guy has his bandana wrapped too tight.

 

No comment necessary.

 

WTF? Oh, I get it, the death clause.

 

Subversive, undercover agent.  (Click on image to see the guy in the middle)

 

Another subversive.

 

I have no fucking clue.

 

You can inherit it, marry it, or steal it.

 

At last, a good looking blonde.

Oh yeah, now we're talkin' double digit IQ

quel idiot

In Appreciation of Panama Hats

Panama hats have always attracted me. Maybe it’s because I was born in Panama and they’re simply in my blood. Who knows. But no other hat has quite the élan of a fine Panama and I clearly remember the day I got mine. It was in the mid-80’s, my friend Nancy and I traveled to the Yucatan on a week-long holiday. We began the trip in the capital city of Merida and ended the week in Cancun. I very much wanted to visit some Mayan ruins and both Uxmal and Chichen Itza are an easy drive from Merida, so we decided to make that our host city as, at the time, there were few accommodations near the ruins themselves. We checked into our pre-booked motel just before sunset. The motel was neo-deco, right out of 1950s Miami Beach, complete with a somewhat dog-eared swim-up bar in the middle of the pool. Nancy and I were anxious to see the city and inquired at the desk how to catch a bus or cab into town. We were directed towards a bus stop about two blocks away and set off in that direction. As the neighborhood looked pretty run-down and it was getting dark, we began to question the wisdom of our adventure, but the bus stop was just up on the next corner so we decided to at least take a look. When we got near, we could see that the corner was inhabited by a group of really scruffy looking men hanging out, smoking and laughing. I swear one of them was Pancho Villa. We decided that discretion was the better part of valor and returned to the motel where we spent a nice evening at the pool bar, visiting with the cabana boy, sipping margaritas, and listening to mariachi. The next morning, I was awakened by the sound of traffic. I looked at my watch, 4:30AM. It was still dark. I thought maybe my watch was broken or that we were in a different time zone or something so I went to the window to see what was going on at this hour of the morning. What I found was, morning traffic. Let me tell you, no one can ever accuse these people of being lazy. After a hearty breakfast of good black coffee and huevos ranchos, we again set off on our journey downtown, via the bus stop. When we reached the stop, I did a double-take because, the same guys were still there! Bolstered by daylight and a sense of adventure, we nodded our courtesies and took our place among them, waiting for the bus. After about 15 minutes or so of waiting, Pancho Villa approached me. We were prepared to make a run for it when he asked me as politely as if he were intruding, where it was we wanted to go. I explained in my broken Spanish that we wanted to catch a bus to Plaza Central. A huge grin came over his face and he flagged down the next bus, one of many broken-down Bluebird school buses that had been passing regularly. He spoke to the driver who, with a big smile, welcomed us aboard. I tried to tip Pancho for his help, but he refused saying, “Bienvenido a Merida.” The people on the bus were genuinely pleased that a couple of Gringos had joined them and, as much as they could given our language barrier, they told us of several places we should visit. I asked where I might find a Panama hat and in unison, they all cried out, “Mercado central”, the central market. This set the theme for the entire trip. I have traveled quite a bit around the world but I have never met more warm or friendly people than in Mexico. We got off at the central plaza in the heart of the city. It’s a beautiful, tree shaded plaza swarming with street vendors and visitors. Consulting our map, I determined a route to the market, which was only a few blocks away. The market is huge, covering several city blocks. We were somewhat bewildered by it all and trying to figure out where to begin when a young boy approached us and in halting English, asked if we needed a guide. Fearing he was a shill for some kind of rip-off, I politely refused. He persisted. A better judge of character than me, Nancy suggested that he might be of real help and asked him if he knew where we could get a good Panama hat. His eyes lit up, “Sì, sì.” he cried. “Panama màs finest.” He motioned for us to follow and we dived into the melee. The market was fantastic. It was as you might imagine, chock full of every type of produce, fruit, clothing, small appliances, hammocks, you name it. We passed by several shops that sold Panamas and I must admit I was getting a little nervous as the youngster led us deeper and deeper into the maze of stalls and vendors. Finally, we came to a small, dirty looking stall and he introduced us to the shop owner, a withered old snaggle-toothed Indian who spoke not a lick of English and, apparently, not much Spanish either. There was no sign of Panama hats to be seen. Rather, the stall appeared to be some kind of taco stand as the walls were lined with large, flat, round tortillas. The old man produced a much used book with pictures of hats and asked me, through the boy, which style I liked. I’ve always wanted a planter’s broad brim with a flat crown, the kind Clark Gable wore in Gone With The Wind, and pointed one out. The old man took a tortilla off of the wall for my approval. I didn’t get a chance to even look at it before the boy immediately refused it, scolding the old man, “Màs finest, màs finest.” A second, and a third tortilla were refused before the old man climbed up on a stool and took one down from the top shelf. The boy grinned and the old man handed it to me. I didn’t know much about Panamas at the time, but I did know that they should be very malleable. You should be able to roll it, place it in your pocket, and remove it without damaging it. The flat I was holding had the texture of a finely woven mat and you could have easily rolled it and put it in your pocket. (Twenty odd years later, you can still roll my hat up and put it in your pocket.) I also knew that you should examine the weave from the crown out for evenness and tightness of weave. The weave spiraled perfectly from crown to edge. I also knew that original Panamas come from Ecuador, not Mexico, and asked the origin of this particular flat. The old man explained that it came from Oaxaca (pronounced wa-ha-ca). He further explained that it was woven by blind women who first chew the toquilla straw leaves until they are soft and can be stripped into the thinnest strips for weaving. He said that they worked in deep caves because the humidity was high and stable and the fiber remained very soft and pliable in the cool darkness. I don’t know if any of this is true, but it’s a damned good story so I bought it hook, line, and sinker. In the center of his shop he had a large vat of milky looking liquid steaming over a charcoal fire. He tossed the flat into the liquid. While it soaked, he measured my head and determined how wide I wanted the brim. With a pair of tongs, he removed the flat from the hot liquid and began forming the hat over a mold. He would work it a while, dip it back into the water, work it some more. When he was working a particular area, say the crown, he would dip only that part of the hat into the liquid. After about fifteen minutes, he held a perfectly formed hat in his hands. At an ancient sewing machine, he trimmed and stitched the brim. Then, he hand-sewed the leather sweat band in place, followed by the hat band. Finished, he placed the still damp hat onto my head. It fit perfectly. I asked how much I owed him and he said $40. The boy exploded into a torrent of elder abuse and quickly weaseled him down to $25. I paid the old man $25, and to the boy’s chagrin, gave him a $5 tip. Having concluded my purchase, the boy led us back to the market entrance. I asked him how much I owed him for his service and he replied, “One dollar American, por favor.” I paid him $1, and tipped him $5. He was very happy, and so was I. What tickled my memory and prompted me to write this story was stumbling across a “màs finest” Panama hat similar to mine for sale on a hat store web site. The cost, $575. (Mr. C shows off his Panama.)

How To Make A Woman Happy

The other day The Peach Tart did a post on men being liars and all-around scoundrels (all in good fun of course) so, when I got this email this morning I thought tit for tat would be in order. (Actually, for some reason I've never been able to get any tit for tats, it's always taken cold hard cash or quaaludes for me.) Anyway guys, here goes: How to make a woman happy. It's not difficult to make a woman happy...

A man only needs to be:

1. A friend 2. A companion 3. A lover 4. A brother 5.. A father 6. A master 7. A chef 8. An electrician 9. A carpenter 10. A plumber 11. A mechanic 12. A decorator 13. A stylist 14. A sexologist 15. A gynecologist 16. A psychologist 17. A pest exterminator 18. A psychiatrist 19. A healer 20. A good listener 21. An organizer 22. A good father 23. Very clean 24. Sympathetic 25. Athletic 26. Warm 27. Attentive 28. Gallant 29. Intelligent 30. Funny 31. Creative 32. Tender 33. Strong 34. Understanding 35. Tolerant 36. Prudent 37. Ambitious 38. Capable 39. Courageous 40. Determined 41. True 42. Dependable 43. Passionate 44. Compassionate WITHOUT FORGETTING TO: 45. Give her compliments regularly 46. Love shopping 47. Be honest 48.. Be very rich 49. Not stress her out 50. Not look at other girls AND AT THE SAME TIME, YOU MUST ALSO: 51. Give her lots of attention, but expect little yourself 52. Give her lots of time, especially time for herself 53. Give her lots of space, never worrying about where she goes IT IS VERY IMPORTANT: 54. Never to forget: * birthdays * anniversaries * arrangements she makes

HOW TO MAKE A MAN HAPPY 1. Show up naked

2. Bring booze

I Love A Good Joke

Couldn't pass up posting this. Really funny: <a href="http://www.cmt.com/video/" target="_blank">Tom Mabe: Eavesdropping</a>

Tom Mabe: Eavesdropping

A timely joke: A lady is visiting a hospital. She's getting the grand tour by the doctor when they pass a room where they see a nurse giving head to the patient. She's horrified. Lady: What on earth!? Doc: Oh, don't be alarmed. It's a medical treatment. It's a rare disease where his body produces so much sperm that he has to ejaculate several times a day or his nuts will explode. Calmed down, the tour continues. A short time later they pass another room with the patient sitting on the side of his bed masturbating. Again, the lady is shocked. Lady: What's this? Doc: Same disease, public option.

Boogie Woogie

Here's a video that's making the email rounds. I know you'll be shanking a leg like me. (If the embeded video doesn't work, here's the link. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1QQzbCmlZM4)

Mr. C's Big Adventure Continues

It was shaping up to be just another weekend when the phone rang. An old friend who lives down in God's Great Waiting Room, aka South Florida, was on the line. The conversation went something like this, "Hey man. Junior has put together a deal on a Dodge Viper and he wants me to deliver it up to Brunswick, Ga. to be shipped to Germany. You gonna be home? I was thinking I might stop by and we can take this thing for a spin around the block. Does that sound OK with you?" My carefully considered answer was something like this, "HELL YES I'M GONNA BE HOME!" It seems B's son, B jr., is an accomplished Internet trader and had crafted the deal while on vacation in the waiting room area. B jr had come upon a Viper for sale and, knowing the European fondness for such toys, quickly found a buyer for it in Germany and the deal was sealed. For those of you who don't know what a Dodge Viper is... When you get in, the first thing you notice is how hard it is to actually get in the thing. You literally worm your way into full-on racing seats that grab you like a hand. You're sitting really low, the gear shift at shoulder height. The roof is low and visibility very limited, especially out of the back. Then, you turn on the key and press the ignition button. The 610hp, V10 comes to life with a rumble that makes your willy tingle. The seats are hard, the cabin cramped, the ride jars your teeth. But when you put your foot in it, all that stuff goes away. This thing will leap to 60mph in 4 seconds in 1st gear! You don't dare put your foot all the way into it because you know the rear end will most certainly come loose, even though it sits on 14 inch wide semi-slicks. Driving around town I would occasionally jump from 30mph or so to 90mph or so and never got it out of 3rd gear. It wasn't the least bit dangerous because it got there and back so quickly that no one was any the wiser. Out on the road, B kicked it up to 100 or so and it was still pulling like you couldn't hold it back. Again, in 3rd gear, with 2 more gears to go. No telling what the top end is. It would stop as fast as it ran and it was never close to losing grip. But as phenomenal as it was as a performance machine, there was something else about it that was even better. Everywhere we went, and I mean everywhere, people gawked and stared. I have never before had so many girls give me the eye or guys look at me with such envy. Yeah buddy. It was some kinda Fun! Then we got to the port, dropped it off, and came back to reality in our rental Kia econo-box. But I'm still grinning.