Let me tell you about owning a muscle car.

Let me just preface this by saying that the only thing that I would give up my car for is my girlfriend or a lemming army armed with tiny little bazookas and molotov cocktails. I’m not talking a small lemming army either, I’m talking, walk across the border and take a piss on the lawn of the White House with one hundred thousand lemmings behind me.

Last year, on New Year’s, I bought a Dodge Charger RT, brand spankin’ new, V8 engine that screams glory and hell fire and death to infidels. No seriously, you rev the engine and you can hear George W. Bush’s wet dreams.

But since that time, I’ve learned a lot that comes with driving a car like this. Mostly like…

1. You will ALWAYS be pulled over. Always. ALWAYS.

You know those hot girls who can’t step into the club without every rampaging chucklefuck within a seventy mile radius trying to talk to her, get up in her face, and grab her ass?

That’s now your car, and every single police officer who has a speed trap in your area who has spent the last year and a half pulling over shithead generic Japanese mundanemobiles realizes that there’s fresh meat on the market. Pretty soon, you can’t go five kilometers over the speed limit going past a trap without seeing flashing lights in the rearview, and then you end up having to entertain a conversation about every single possible traffic violation you could have possibly committed since you were born.

The truth is, when you drive a car like this, you’re a target. I’m okay with that – I’ve grown to accept the attention, it’s a compliment, not an insult. But that being said, that doesn’t necessarily mean that’s how you react at first. At first, you become that dude who pulls up beside cops at the light, windows fully down, blasting Nickelback like an air raid siren, singing sexually inappropriate lyrics at a middle aged police officer who really, just wants to get home without hearing you scream about pink thongs at him ever again.

2. Everyone wants to race you. EVERYONE.

Having a muscle car is a romantic, sexy thing – it’s that car in the movies that always wins the races, always gets the girl. And of course, everyone wants to be a part of that story, even if they’re the douchefucks in the movie that get left sucking dust a thousand miles behind your tail lights. But it’s never like a movie – see, what will happen is much more subtle and infuriating than that. You’ll be driving along, going an even 60 K, wind at your face and rock music playing happily, delirious with joy. And then some fucker is going to come flying past you, going 90. And he’ll suddenly slow down. You’ll notice him, and be like, meh. Then he’ll wait for you to catch up and do it again. Forget the fact that revving your engine would be enough to blow his little car right off the road and into a forgiving ditch. Fuck you if you’re not going to race him – he and his Civic are a team goddamnit, and he demands your begrudging respect as he continues to race you without your consent or participation, and pretty soon, you realize that you’re actually in the middle of a one man race between some dude and his ego who you’ve apparently offended by simply being alive.

3. People expect you to know everything about cars.

So in my un-expert opinion, there’s two kinds of talented people when it comes to cars. There’s the people who know the cars in and out, and can build and rebuild and take apart and rebuild a car quicker than God can rebuild a chapel for homeless infant puppies. Then there are the people of gifted reflexes and abilities to see the holes in traffic and the way that the road develops, those people who have a certain kinship with the road.

As you can probably tell, I didn’t buy my car because I have an overwhelming need to rub my ass against something with more power than a minor Saudi king. I’m one of the people who has had, and will always have an undying love of the road. There’s something about putting four wheels on asphalt and heading out into the unknown that is oddly unsettling. When I was going through the roughest point in my life, my friends tried their best to help me, but I was always an introvert – I needed to get through it on my own, and the best way for me to do that was to get out and drive, and just drive and drive and drive. I love the road, in a way not unlike an old pirate might love the sea, with an awed reverence for the things that I’ve seen, the places I’ve been and where I’ve yet to go.

But I don’t know fuck all about cars.

I found this out not too long after I walked into a car parts place with a clear store front that showed the front of my car, looking for someone that could do some vinyl work for my car. As I walk upto the counter, the dude behind it whistles and asks me what kind of engine it is. I reply politely, “5.7”. Before I can even open my mouth again to ask him a further question, he begins to go on a massive tirade, which may have very well been in a different language because I’m pretty sure half of what he said were less car parts and more so Iraqi slang terms for the word “vagina.”

And as you stand there, in numb silence, trying to figure out a way to best extricate yourself from that situation, he gives you a conspiratorial little wink and proceeds to give you perhaps the toughest exam on every single part of your car and of every car in your make since 1502. Eventually, when both of you are fully aware of your horrifying ignorance with everything to do with car parts when you say, “I don’t know about that alternating carboration metallurbaration stuff, but I sure do like that fuckin’ spoiler”, and “Yeah, I’m going to super charge the fuck out of that car soon, as long as I find a cape big enough”, you’ll leave feeling like a jackass for disappointing someone you don’t even know.

4. The muscle car wars.

So my girlfriend didn’t really understand this when I told her, and I don’t really understand it myself. Well, I understand some of the history behind it, but I don’t understand it in the same way that I don’t understand that Barney was on crack cocaine the entire time that he was singing to me as a child. Not because I’m not capable of understanding it, but because I feel that it’s so astronomically stupid that I don’t want to know because it makes me feel better to not have that information in my head, kind of like an infectious tumor in my fucking nutsack. That’s what this argument is, a sperm attacking tumor, fucking up your precious boys.

The story goes like this – if you’ve got a muscle car, that must mean you’re a ___________ man, and that’s all you are. If you’ve got a Mustang, that means you’re a Ford man, and Ford men hate Chevy men more than they hate Al Qaeda. And if you’re Al Qaeda and you don’t hate anyone from America yet, then buy a Dodge and watch as you suddenly apparently are expected to passionately despise the very existence of every other muscle car on the face of the earth.

Now I can’t be like that. The first car I fell in love with was the Chevy Corvette, and that’s still my dream car. Since then, I’ve only ever loved one kind of car – big engine, big power, straightaway demons that fly like bats out of hell when you put them on a straight line, cars that power out of turns like they’re chasing the air itself.

I still remember the day that I saw the ZR1 in action. I don’t give a fuck who says what – that car is majesty on wheels, grace on pistons, sex in vehicle form. I wanted that car when I saw it. I wanted to conquer corners, dominate asphalt, ragefuck the very air itself. 

That’s why I love muscle cars – they’re built for speed, no qualms or backing down, no excuses. Just straight up speed, and brutal raw speed at that. So how could I get angry when I found out that there was a 1000 hp Mustang out there? You want to know what my first thought was when I found that out?

“I wonder if my car can do that.”

The truth is, speed is a universal language. Anybody can fall in love with it, and it’s a car that’s made for the driver, someone who wants to put those four wheels on the pavement and just drive.

5. Fuckknuckles who think that a muscle car is a ticket for sex. 

Instead, I see a constant, enduring line of cockstraps and penisgarglers commenting on how “how much pussy I must get.” Why yes sir, there has been a large number of cats that have been padding through the general area around my place of residence recently. Not only that, this car attracts so much pussy that the cats themselves are mating with bats to produce catbats with wings so that they can throw themselves at me with reckless winged abandon. I’m actually scooping cats off my stoop with a shovel, and beating them away with hands filled with more cats. There’s so much pussy that I don’t know what to do with them all.

Truthfully, the reason this annoys me is because it’s by and large the most common problem on this whole list. It’s understandable – you walk into a movie theater, and you’re blown away when the only character in Fast Five who doesn’t fit the bill for a casting call for Brokeback Mountain 2 is driving an American muscle car and has muscles on top of his muscles on top of his muscles. In fact, we’re programmed from a young age, as boys, to equate muscles with sex. It’s stuck in our brain – if we have good bodies, women will like us, because really, if we have nice bodies and women don’t like us, it means that we’re horrible jackasses with not a single possible redeeming factor other than the ability to move our pecs without touching them.

Likewise, we’re taught from a young age that muscle cars spell sex. Think about it – you’re a young, impressionable boy and you walk into a movie theater and the main character is driving a raging angry muscle car. The average movie is what, 120 minutes or so? Two hours? How long does it take the hot girl in the movie and the main character to bone? If recent movies are any indication, they’re boning in the car, on the car and on the ground outside the car by the five minute mark. That means, as a young, shitheaded kid, you’re taught that within ten minutes tops of presenting your car to the general area of any area with a large amount of females, every woman within visual distance of their car should instantly cream their panties and throw them at your car. Every single fucking movie representation of muscle cars winds up like a softcore porno with less soft Latino music and more Metallica screaming.

That’s the problem. So when I meet some new dude who’s been a wrist jockey for the past few months, and he sees my car, you can practically see the cogs in his brain turning as he stares at me accusingly, as if I’m beating the women away from my dick right there in front of him, with my dick. Let me be the one to fuck this mindset up for good then – this doesn’t happen. Do I get stared at? Yes. But do I get approached? Once every two or three months maybe. Do I get a girl who just straight up comes onto me with the force of a small sex tornado? No. NO.


That doesn’t happen in real life. It takes time to build a relationship and have a healthy sexual relationship that doesn’t involve an immediate paralyzing fear of commitment issues for me anyway, what the fuck would I do with a horde of women?

I’d rather have the fucking lemmings.