She's a whirling dervish of painful spikes, a bundle of trapdoors and spider-web clogged alleyways.  She's a distilled Bowry evil, a suburban cannibal nightmare.  She's the basement full of bodies, a convention of meth-fueled Satanic truckers.  She is the Demon Girl, she is the one true nemesis.

Grrr-Grrr-Grrr.

The only way to combat this is to adopt an ancient form of self-defense, a sort of Hotrod Hoplight, the Kung Fu of Kustom Kar Kraft, the Meditation of Motors.  The only way to defend yourself is the Secret of Internal Combustion Madness.

The Bing Bang Bangingest.

Though there is no replacement for displacement, recent advances more than make up for a small stroke and bore.  Chemical additives, advanced timing, variable positions for key components over the rev range, the whine and howl of turbo and super chargers, and enhanced traction all help the small seem big.  Most important, though, is the driver.  Learn all the nuances, study every angle, and never stop practicing.  Remember: it's not the size of the motor, it's how you put the rubber to the road.

Don't just jam the thing in gear and dump the clutch, shuddering to a jerky and out-of-control launch.  Too often this leads to an early end with your rods bent and your valves hammered as you blow the motor in a burst of hot oil and coolant.  No, you need to nuance and finesse the start.  You need to learn where the best response is, where the motor and gears and tires are all singing in harmony.  Then you can let fly, but maintain control throughout.  You have to slip the gears through, mating the clutch and throwout bearing to the shafts at precise times, and with precise intent.  It simply won't do to lose a shaft to careless over-revving.

Not everything in life is a quarter mile, and you often find curves in the road.  You must know how to best handle them, how to maintain your cool when faced with the bumping and grinding of the suspension.  The contours should be as familiar to you as your own name.  You need to know when to accelerate, when to downshift and dig in, and when to hit the brakes.  You need to learn rev-matching, need to feel and hear your motor and how it responds to your input.

And when the end is coming, it is important to maintain a clear head until the finish is complete.  Then you can pop the corks and celebrate another hard charging explosive victory.

It Must Be Friday.

I need a T-shirt that reads "Fridays are for Fun you Fucking Fucks."  Then I will never wear it, because it has curse words and I am as pure and innocent as the driven snow.

It would crush my poor dear old silver haired granny if I were to wander the earth with a shirt that even implied something so awful as Fuck.

Fuck.  FUCK!  Yowza.

The best part of this week was falling asleep next to my sleeping wife.  At one point recent, she rolled over in her sleep and put her arm over my chest, then lifted her arm and smacked me.  "Off!" she said, motioning off the bed, then rolled and commenced snoring.  That's the command we give our dogs to get off the furniture.  I know I'm hairy as a Yeti, but damn.  To her defense, she was asleep the entire time.  She often smacks me in her sleep, come to think of it.

Hrm.

The worst of this week is boring and well-known.  I don't need to cover it here.

But I have two bits of advice:

1. If a doctor comes up to you and says (adjust the patois to your culture and station in life) "Hey yo matey, I'm totally going to give you an EMG test" then kick him in the nuts and run away.
2. The prevkious piece of advice is old.  The newest: if the doc says "Blimey, you need a myelogram there old chap!" then kick him in the nuts and steal his BMW.

Hello!

And Do You Know What Time It Is?

It is time for a POLL!