Put the Pedal to the Coroding Plastic

Hey there, Peds. Hope you enjoy death!

Now, the law of the land isn't perfect. In fact, it's been proven to be so flawed at times that hobos have been allowed to walk the streets freely, sometimes without shirts! Scientologists have been granted the right to not only exist, but keep all of their skin as well. And in some cases, the elderly have actually been given an alternative to being ground into Soylent Green and then blasted into space/volcanoes. But all these blunders, atrocious as they may seem, are but little white cracker laws when compared to the audacity of what Uncle Sam has allowed this time. Believe what you will, but I swear to you that this is the truth. I, your friendly neighborhood Dave, have attained the legal right to operate an automobile.

"What's so bad about that?" you may be asking yourself. Well, first off, I'll be asking all the questions here, Turk, so don't go trying to be a hero and pulling any of that Turkish Kung-Fu Ninjitso Hip-Hop shit on me. I'm far too intelligent for that anyway. I would crush you like a vice crushes a manatee. And you don't want manatee juice all over your brand new carpet right after you just got it washed and your lousy tramp of a wife/shemale husband complains about how you never spend any time with your little bastard kids. You know what that's like, and it ain't pretty, so don't ask. Don't ever ask again!

Anyway, now that you've asked, there are several reasons why having a Dave Randle-shaped driver piloting your C-class auto-what's-it could potentially be a very bad thing.

Reason 1: Years of video game experience.

Yeah, go ahead Mario. Take the fucking lead. Take all my goddamn shells while you're at it!

Yeah, yeah. I hear you saying "But Dave! Video games should have prepared you for driving if anything. They're good practice." Well, first off, didn't I tell you to shut the hell up? Want me to come over there and give you the frapping of a lifetime? You know I will! Don't give me any of that "I was just suggesting something. There's no need to get violent," crap or any of that "What the hell are you doing in my home, and why aren't you wearing any pants?" crap. I don't want to hear it. You're going to be a good little reader or else you get the hose again. And by "hose" I mean "savage rape and mutilation of your entire ancestry and all living relatives."

Now then, back to my point. Yes, with all the cutting edge 3D driving game technology presented to us in such games as Burnout, Smart Driver and Fear No Evil (not yet released), one would think video games' use as a driver instruction tool should surpass that of the pathetically outdated current method of instruction: the parent. However, underneath video games' sleek apparent teaching abilities, there lies a terrible subliminal longing to "beat the level." In all my years of playing video games it never dawned on me that every aspect of the game's I'd played would cross over to the driving world, but it was so! I now regularly find myself double-tapping all sorts of buttons on my dashboard in hopes that my car will spout a plethora of racial slurs in huttese whenever I pass that little douche puncher Anakin (any other driver on the road). I crash head on into every police car I see in order to try and immediately gain 2 stars so that maybe they'll send the tank and then I can steal that. And on a regular basis, I always shoot for the spinning transparent question mark so maybe I can get the red Koopa shell or that goddamned lightning bolt that Mario always fucking steals before I get a chance. As you can probably guess, the button mashing just activates all sorts of unmentionable gadgets, pops the hood, and changes the radio station; the police ramming usually results in death of some kind, and the spinning transparent question marks are usually just people's floor to ceiling living room windows that surprisingly when I drive through them, don't even get me the lousy banana peel.

Reason B: Lack of invincibility.

As I recently found out, I am not in fact Superman, nor was I even born on fucking Krypton! This makes for some rather dicey accidents when I feel like strapping my body to this or that while my car uses its powers of cruise control to run into me at blinding speeds. I suppose there are some pluses to this. I never have to worry about lasers shooting out of my face and melting my windshield, unless of course I'm Cyclops…which is likely. And all those glowing green Kryptonite cars (I assume they're Kryptonite cars and not you know…hallucinations.) that take it upon themselves to tailgate me on nights when I've taken LSD are pretty much harmless, until they turn into horrible tentacle beasts and everything melts. But that's a different problem altogether.

Reason Zed: Road Rage.

Many different methods exist for coping with Road Rage. This wop employs the "I'm a wop! Take notice of my rediculous vehicular transportation unit! Hey! Piece-a Pizza!" technique.

While I'm normally the nicest and sexiest of guys anyone will ever meet ever, there are times when my Zen master attitude mutates into something resembling Bizarro Santa from Elektrodimensia. When this happens, every word I speak gets the volume turned up until not even the surge protector of Jesus Christ himself (The Jesus-tron 6 kajillion) can save you. I also sprout giant bat-like wings and the car itself explodes in all sorts of impressive special effects, including lens flares. At this point, everyone and every thing who's even thinking about considering going anywhere near what might resemble a road is fair game for smashage.

Oh sorry. Did I say "several"? I meant three. That's several, right? Right. Now stop reading. Stop it!