It never fails, whenever driving back from wherever, I'm at my top speed of 120 kmh, pedal to the metal, 108 horses sucking wind like out-to-pasture swaybacks, I've got a little willy going because I'm finally able to pass someone (usually a mid-80s Colt or Geo) and I look in the rear-view mirror, only to be confronted with the image of a huge grill barebacking my bumper. Holy crap, where the fuck did that come from? I scoot back into the, cough cough, slow lane, and see out of the corner of my eye some American-made mini-van racing by.
So, what I'm wondering, is there some sort of hormone that's absorbed by folks once they buy a six-seater, a hormone that tricks them into believing that they get better gas mileage the faster they go? Because, it's either that or, what I figure: it's 20-something suburbanites living in Laval or the Brossard (Hi-NRG vs heavy metal on the stereo), a few years on the job market with their Administration degree, locked into a 25-year mortgage on a pre-fab bungalow, a kid in daycare and another one on the way, they're refusing to admit that they no longer hang out with their dudes at the campus bar, the male-pattern baldness is settling in, and the only avenue to "rebellion" that they have left is pushing their Windstar to 150.
posted by Michel @ 1:04 PM
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