Smart, My Ash
You ugly little son of a bitch. Yeah, that’s right, I’m talking to you, ya tiny turd… you, you friggin’ fidget on wheels. You think you’re so damned smart, don’t you?
I drove past a Smart Car on the weekend and couldn’t believe this ballsy little half pint was zipping along Route 80 with the big boys of the interstate. In fact, I threw a paper clip at it, trying to knock it over, but the little bastid just laughed and kept on going. Then I tossed a 
handful of loose change and half a half eaten sandwich at it, but it held it’s ground. I then opened my door and farted and as you can imagine, it did give the driver a good scare.
The Smart Car is what gives the Al Gore’s of the world a perpetual woody. It is the green geekazoid’s chariot of triumph. At 8 feet long, five feet wide and five feet high, this hideous looking glorified golf cart is all the rage for the crowd that harasses whaling vessels while sucking down tofu smoothies during lunch break. At 1,500 pounds it gets around 70 miles to a gallon and is all the rage in Europe. But of course those tight little cobblestone streets are made for such a ride, not the big bad American super highways.
The guy who invented Swatch Watches was bored one day and came up with the idea for this diminutive doo-hickey. Sure, it’s fuel efficient and good for the ozone, but it’s without question, one big rolling can of chick repellent. I love old muscle cars like Corvettes, Mustangs, Camaros, Firebirds, Challengers, 
Chargers, Dusters, etc. I love the look, the feel, and the power. And chicks dig a dude in a 454, plain and simple. They don’t dig 50 horsepower. The ladies go gaga over eight-cylinder super-charged beasts. They don’t get all hot and bothered by three-cylinder wimps. I sincerely ask you - how the hell are you gonna get laid in that toaster with wheels? First off, no self-respecting hottie would be caught dead dating a dud in that oversized Partridge Family lunchbox. And secondly, there just ain’t enough room to bump and grind by the dashboard light. I want a lady who’s turned on by muscle and might, not fiscal and environmental responsibility. Why not just put a bumper sticker on the back that says, “I have a small dick, too.”
Save the Earth? How about saving your self worth? Any real red-blooded American male is not going to be seen behind the wheel of one of those teenie-weenie, Euro machine-ees. And guess what? These little punk-ass vehicles ain’t cheap, either. There’s three models and the base starts at around $12,000 with the high-end model topping out at around seventeen grand! Are these people kidding? You could probably juice up a riding lawn mower and save yourself fifteen thousand. At least attach a couple of rotating blades under the damned thing so you can earn a few extra bucks cutting lawns in your neighborhood. Jezuz H Christmas, man.
Now, supposedly the crash ratings are pretty good on these uglified autos, but how’d you like to drive between a couple of Mac Trucks in that rolling bucket of doom? Something tells me nailing a squirrel at 30 miles an hour would F that mini gas can up something awful. I wonder in the winter if you can pop the wheels off and snap sled runners on.
I simply cannot endorse these ass-wipe automobiles. I’m a man who loves ice hockey, beer can chicken, full-bodied cigars, full-bodied females, and I believe you can put bacon on anything and it will taste better. Why just a few months back I tore a god damned beaver damn apart with my bare hands, for crissakes. There is no way in hell I will compromise my role as a manly creature by getting behind the wheel of one of those gaudy little go-carts. NFW. No way, no how, uh-huh. It just ain’t smart.
Have a Swell Week,
Tommy Z.
JR CIGARS Blog With the Zman
