You Better Slow your Mustang Down.

In Memory Of Wilson Pickett, 18 March 1941 – 19 January 2006 (Mustang Sally – Ride Sally Ride)

I ditched out from work early this afternoon. Recently I have been in the market for a new vehicle, a truck in particular. My lease on my over traveled boring “work” vehicle was up so I have been searching the internet for some great, or even good deals. By nature, “I’m a FORD truck man”, but I was leaving all options open. Some of the import trucks look pretty sweet. During lunch, while surfing the net I saw my truck, or at least one I had to investigate. It was indeed a Ford, and appeared to be a great deal. Very low miles and all of the extras (I never by a new vehicle, instead one that was repossessed or less than one year old, but that is another post).

I left work and headed for the dealership which was out in the country, about 35 miles away. I pulled in and parked and exited to go find my truck. Along the way I passed the Mustang isle which had several of the new Mustangs. I have rented this vehicle several times and although I love the way it looks and its power, it is very hard to get in and out of and it rides like a jeep. Plus the price is way inflated due to the perceived demand (Actually it is not selling too well, or at least as well as predicted. Ford has made up this shortage story to in entice a made up demand when in reality all they have to do is start making them on a regular basis). One of the Stangs caught my eye. It was a beautiful car. It had everything and had some cool ground effects and it just looked mean. “Hi, can I help you” I heard from behind me. I turned to see this slim, scrawny, girl of a guy standing there (which reminded me of a female Jack). Now if I were a gay man or had homosexual tendencies I could see me taking this kid in as my cabana boy. “No, I am alright just looking” I said. I guess he didn’t hear me and started rambling the stats of the car, the horse power, and the cubic inches of the engine, BLAH, BLAH, and BLAH. Now if there is anything I hate more than watching fat people eat, it was sales people, especially car sales people.
I decided to make this kid work for his money and my irritation. I began asking a lot of technical questions, as if I was truly interested in this car and may buy it so this kid could make his first sale. He was lost at the gear size and ratios. “OK, let’s have some fun” I thought.
I asked if I could drive it. He said that I could, retrieved my license and went to fetch a copy of it and a dealer plate. He just about skipped away in excitement. His day was about to change. I am well versed in driving and such; it is a part of my career path. Not the “Professional driver on closed course, do not try this at home” variety, but far advanced from the everyday driver this kid was used to. I glanced around at the country side. This would be fun.



I started the Mustang and asked the kid if I could “Really test it out”. “Sure” he said as if he had a sack of steel between his legs. I put the 300 HP pony in gear and punched on the gas. The tires squealed, and left a plume of smoke behind us as we barreled out of the dealership parking lot. I could see by the look on cabana boy’s face he was already regretting this. Before the pony hit third gear we were pushing 100 MPH with an open country road before us. I began with “Yeah, my wife just left me, took the kids and ran off with another man”. 110 MPH. “My physiatrist says that I will adjust as long as I stay on my meds”. 115 MPH. “I didn’t take them today though”.

I looked over and cabana boy was as white as a ghost, his fingers in a death grip upon the door handle. 120 MPH. I took my eyes off of the road and looked right at him “I’m a decent guy aren’t I”? I saw his eyes shoot from me, to the road and back to me again. “ye ye yes” he stutters. “Then why would she leave me” I yelled, and took a hard left, the tires screaming as we made the turn. 125 MPH. I turned the radio on and began obnoxiously changing all of the radio stations, then screamed “FUCK” and hit the “On / Off” button. 130 MPH. Again I looked directly at him and said “You know, sometimes I just wanna end it all”. I could swear that cabana boy crapped his pants at this point, but the smell could have been from the heat of the engine breaking in all of the new engine parts. I saw the road. A dirt road off to the right into a field, then disappearing into some trees. I slammed on the brakes, barely making the turn. Once

I hit the dirt, the car started fish tailing and I went with it, punching the gas once again to get the car into a spin, a burn out, doughnut, brodie, what ever they call it these days. Cabana boy snapped. He was about in tears as he squeaked, “Please let me out”. At this point I again slammed on the brakes and the car came to an abrupt stop. As the dust settled all around us, I put on my best “I am insane” face and asked “what is it”?

There we sat in this semi wooded area. Me with a crazed look in my eyes playing the crazy card, and cabana boy on the verge of a melt down in the passenger seat (at this point I may have had a gay moment. I visualized having my way with cabana boy, way out here in the middle of now where. After all he looked like a girl, minus the boobs, kinda like the singer from Hanson). We sat face to face silent. “You think I am crazy, don’t you” I asked? He told me no, it was just that the car wasn’t made for this kind of speed and abuse. “Then why the hell would I want it” I asked?

I came clean to cabana boy and told him that it was all in good fun. I drove back to the dealership. I told him about my truck, the one I had seen on the internet. When we arrived at the dealership, I parked the Mustang and we exited. It was at that point I noticed it. An undeniable wet spot in the crotch of cabana boy. Cabana boy had pissed himself. I held back the laughter.

I ended up buying my truck. Cabana boy got his first sale