Sharp Tools

Good God, son, that's the *NOISE*.

By all that's holy. There's a reason The General is shitting bricks sideways into an SUV-sized grave, and it's not even because gas prices are somewhere north of Sting's ego. No, it's because they lost sight of the sound. Yes. The sound. I remember once when I was younger, and my li'l Brit sled was busy wearing a hole in her muffler, when I gave my uncle a ride. We blared into the Callahan tunnel, and I mumbled something about getting the muffler fixed. He gave me a disbelieving look and said "Shit, boy, why? That there's The Noise."

See, GM's forgotten all about The Noise and what it means.

But we haven't. Check that shit out.

That is a sound so pure, so manly, that my ovaries, yes my fucking ovaries quiver in my foppish body at the very wavelengths of it. I am detesticled at its wondrous bassline. I stand before the Noise and my masculinity is not worthy.

To Ride the Noise?

That would be to wear the balls of Steve McQueen while punching with the fists of Clint Eastwood from behind the sneer of Yaphet Kotto and insulting with the voice of James Earl Jones.

There would be no lesser run around the fucking track.

Okay, okay. Chrysler. I know. I know. The SENTIMENT FUCKING STANDS. Posted by jbz at April 5, 2006 12:31 AM | TrackBack