Saturday, December 28, 2013

2014

I'd like to take some time to talk about some things I'm doing in Q1 of 2014 for you guys. First off, Porsche Stories Vol. 3 is under way and will be on here before the leaves hit the trees and shit. Second, Helen The Office Slut™ is something a little different I'm putting together for everyone, so stay woke for that. Last, I'm gonna drop some reviews of cars that i get my fat ass hands on in the coming months, hopefully with increasing frequency as the months go on. Well that's it, thank y'all for reading the few shitty things I've put together this year and I hope you read my shit next year. Happy New Years niggas!

Monday, December 16, 2013

Porsche Stories Vol. 2

Alright, I've finally done it. No corny introduction is needed here. Give it a read and tell me what you think. 

 I woke up in a downtown apartment, on what I knew was an Ikea bed, she was next to me. We had already begun the awkward yawn and stretch. I swiveled my view and saw her bedroom was large, dotted with veneered, self-assembled, pressed wood furniture. She crawled out of bed, her ever so slightly fleshy frame, no taller than 5'6", slinked it's way across the floor. Each leg moving in front of the other, feet tapping the carpet toes first. She slid into the bathroom and peered around the door frame, those steel-blue eyes just as vivid as the night before. The baby face that held those eyes was framed by wavy brunette hair. 

She rolled back into the bathroom, as I slowly materialised her name: Iliana Mitchell. I heard water begin to run into a gentle mist in the bathroom. She peered out the door again, waving her index finger for me to join her inside. The steam surrounded us in a warm cloud as I ran my hands down her slick hips. It felt just like the humid day I was outside the dealership scrubbing away at brand new Carrera S, white over red. Rick slowly made his way down the steps to me. 

"Looks good!"

"I try."

"With the money we've been bringing in, you should have one of your own."

"What about the Ferrari? Doesn't that count for something?"

"I forget about that, how is that thing anyway?"

"My mum borrowed it for the day."

"Come inside, we gotta talk."

We went inside, and he explained the way that the world worked. Every used car dealer in this town was either a crook, or sold cars for fun. Rick was a crook, a drug trafficking crook. With that new knowledge, I was about to join all the fun. We went back outside, the key was thrown into my hands. 

"You drive."

"Where?"

"The airport."

I didn't question it. I reached for the left side of the dash, and as I turned the key I could hear her moan. She was pinned against the wall of the shower, my hand grasping the fullest portion of her ass. My hands turned into the hands of a high school football player named John Conroy in the back of a 1994 968
John wasn't exactly a catch, but he paid me the type of attention you could buy. And buy he did, when he handed the man cash for that beautiful white 1984 911. I felt so obligated to him that I ended up going to the same college. John was one of many mistakes I've made in my life, all of them managed to advance my position in life. I could feel his hand run down my inner thigh, my eyes opened. 

As we lounged in our towels I couldn't help but ask Iliana more about herself. There was something mysterious in those eyes, they reminded me of xenon headlamps actually.

"So you said you work for Porsche, is that at a dealer..."

"No, I work PR for them. Well I mostly just travel to car shows now, hand people brochures, and smile."

"The way you drove last night, I would've swore you were a factory test dri-" 

"I was, kind of."

"Do tell."

"Let's save something to talk about at brunch."

"Brunch? Okay, sure."

I felt like I agreed to do more than eat a meal by the somber tone that slipped between those pale lips. I decided to get dressed instead of pressing on the story. Comforting her didn't quite feel like the thing to do. I didn't even quite understand why I was still in her house, other than how beautiful she was. As I buttoned my cuffs I asked a simple question. 

"So you mind me driving you?"

"I think we should have a little race."

"I think we had enough of that last night."

"So you can't keep up now?"

"You KNOW I can keep up."

"You know where Bistro La Bon is?"

"I practically live in Plaza-Midwood, of course I do."

"Good. I'll see you there."

"Oh, it's like that?"

She was already pacing to the door before I could get the sentence out. The time crept just past 10:34 on my Submariner, as I chased her through the hall. It was akin to chasing a small dog off its leash. I was running into the unknown really, and I didn't care. 

Monday, October 14, 2013

CLA

Man, I've been busy. But I took time to put down my thoughts on this CLA and whatnot. Y'all mawfuckas enjoy and shit. 

Okay, now look, before I even go into this shit, lemme make it clear: I LOVE MERCEDES-BENZ. I've owned a few of them over the years, from balla as a mawfucka, all the way to EBT/buy-here-pay-here concourse levels of Benz. But what in the fuck made these niggas think that this CLA shit was kosher? No nigga, y'all thought mawfuckas was just gonna sit back and let y'all just do this shit? Y'all though y'all was gonna sell us a Louis Vuitton bag with the monogram backwards? Do we look like tourists mawfucka? I gotta spend an extra $1500 just to get leather seats and a soft touch dash in a car that not only already costs $30k but has a fuckin Mercedes emblem on the front of it. Nigga, who the fuck told y'all it was okay to sell a Benz here without leather seats in the first place? That shit already was unacceptable as a mawfucka on the C-Class, and THEN you bastards thought lets take the A-Class, take all the practicality out of it, and sell it to Nigga-Americans who basically only see the brand on the front if that bitch in the first place. Touché, you stuck up South German bastards. A real nigga roll up in Swabia and I bet y'all be shook. Not to mention I'm still about to whoop y'all ass for the Airmatic going out on that W220 S500 while I was on the freeway. But y'all some assholes for real, y'all built a name and an image and shit here in America just so y'all can get cheap and make a huge profit off an image. Fuck y'all, first off for pricing that shit only $5k below the base pice of a C-Class even though it's $10k less car. Second off y'all wrong as hell for offering an illuminated emblem on car so fuckin dumbed down it don't deserve the emblem in the first place. Also, stop calling that shit a coupe. Stop calling the CLS a coupe too. BMW got the same problem, but imma leave them out of this shit. This ain't a coupe, or a sport coupe, or even a luxury car for that matter. Why can I go buy a Mazda 6 with a nicer interior, leather seats, and more room for less money? Why is a car made in Hungary still so expensive? Why y'all think we stupid Mercedes? Why y'all ain't tell niggas the CLK was just a C-Class coupe? You know what the CLA is? It's like if Breitling decided to make a smaller version of the Navitimer with a Quartz movement. It looks like the good shit, but it ain't the good shit. It's an ugly lie, like getting catfished by a ugly bitch on twitter, but you still fuck with her cause she be wearing designer shit. See, that's what Mercedes done dumbed down to: designer shit. Niggas wear designer shit to give off an impression of wealth and shit. Man, fuck this shit, I done got so mad I don't feel like writing no more. Fuck Mercedes, fuck the CLA, and fuck you fatherless, Starbucks soy latte drinking, Coach wearing mawfuckas that are gonna buy this shit. I'm out. 

Saturday, October 12, 2013

Porsche Stories Vol. 1


Alright you dusty mauhfuckas, here it is, my first piece of semi-fictional goodness and shit. This is the first in a series of stories I'm gonna do. Drop me some feedback and shit when you're done. 

It was another trife night, at the same bar I ran through every Friday right at the stroke of 7 after work. I made a terrible habit of tossing the keys to the valet, it was so cliché that I shuddered slightly everytime I did it. Let's be clear: I don't go to bars looking for girls, it's not my thing. Occasionally, I might find myself meeting someone special, but it's rare at best. So I just approached the bar, sat down, ordered a martini and scanned to see if any of my friends were in view. I didn't see anyone I knew so I just settled into a review of my mediocre day, that blended seamlessly to the other shitty days I experienced. I began to think about the fact that I only carried my red valet key on Fridays. I woke up on a Saturday around 12 and got dressed to go pick up some food at the market. I grabbed my keys and realized the key for the Targa was missing from my caribiner. I ran to the garage and it wasn't to be found. So I troweled back through the house, to go out the front door to my nosy, elderly neighbour's house. Hopefully she saw me pull in with the 911 last night. As soon as I pulled open the door, my lovely brown Porsche was sitting there sinking into my front lawn. I finally found my key, it was sitting in the ignition, it had been there all night. I quit drinking for 3 months after that. Drinking like that was dumb, especially over a woman. Right when I began to feel sorry for myself, I couldn't help but see something beautiful walk up on the bar. She grabbed a Stella Artois from the bartender, and didn't turn a full foot from the bar before she tipped it up to her face. Now someone like me can't resist that level of lunacy, so as soon as my foot hit the floor me and my martini were right behind her. She stopped at a table on the exterior terrace, and sat looking over our insignificant city. As I set into a longing gaze, I couldn't help but notice the unmistakable sound of a 911 Turbo. As I looked down I remembered my old 911, a 996 Turbo, black on black. I remember how she told me that car was an ostentatious waste of money. I was still in high school then, and me and her were still imagining our future together. We were arguing that night when that Kia changed lanes in front of me.
"Maybe this thing would feel safe to me if you didn't drive it so fucking fast."
"Maybe if you stopped nagging, I can get us home and we can figure this out in bed."
"Just pay attention to the..."
And in that instant a green Kia Rio appeared in the lane and there was nowhere to run. I miss that car more than I miss dating her. My mind ran back to the beautiful specimen of woman sitting fifteen feet away from me. She had been sitting alone for a good while now, never once glancing around for someone. 
"Hey, anyone sitting with you?"
"No, but I suppose you can if you want."
As I began to talk to her about how fast Charlotte's skyline has changed, I reminisced on a rust oozing, silver 911S Targa that I rode in as a child with my father pointing the long-forgotten past to me. 
"Over there was nothing but black people when I was coming up, now they done tore down all these wards, and now it's 'downtown'. Second Ward School used to be right there, and Uncle Mozel used to live down there."
I was surprised my history lesson didn't force her eyes to glaze over, a set of steel-blue eyes, vivid, with the type of depth you couldn't measure. They sat in a pale face, somehow round, but never fat. The questions about my history lesson began to slow down as we approached the valet. Until she stalled with a question.
"I presume you'll be following me. If you can keep up."
I chuckled under my breath. 
"I think you won't have to worry about that."
My smirk melted when her car arrived at the valet. A lime green 911 GT3 RS. My brown Targa 4S then pulled into view. My night just got interesting. 


Thursday, October 10, 2013

Beauty/Death

Well y'all, I'm back, don't judge me and shit, but I'm back with a poem I wrote a while back and shit. Leave some feedback if you want, cause tonight I have a semi-fictional story coming right at you. But for now read this:



A cold wind blows
Red-orange leaves flow across the horizon
An astute mind knows
Not all is perfect, for his past is not behind him
This scene
Though beautiful, lacks depth
This scheme
That beauty can cover up death
The wind slowly calls her name
You stand
Your look stays the same
As the leaves turn to rain
And wash away the ridiculous expression of pain
You find an umbrella
Yet it doesn't dry the disdain
That sits upon your face so idle and vain
So quickly the rope cuts the skin and you gasp
No face to go along with the tight grasp
It seems that beauty can't cover up death
The rain, oh the rain, can cover what's left.

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

THE Porsche


I've had opportunity offered to me that most car guys would die for. In my case a few times I nearly did die, and in this specific story, I broke my nose. Hard. What you're about to read is a true story, or what I remember...

I was 14 years old, it was early August and I really didn't like the thought of going off to high school. I guess I hated the idea of not being challenged mentally all day, whilst being surrounded by a bunch of pretentious kids from created suburbs with no real prestige. But my escape from life was learning the car business from a guy who could get and do anything, for the sake of privacy I'll call him Rick. I'll introduce you to him at another time. 

Me and Rick travelled to Atlanta a lot, it was extremely easy to move luxury and exotic cars there at the time and it was a stones throw from Charlotte. On this particular occasion, we went to go pick up a car while we were there. Not just any car, but a 996 Porsche 911 Turbo with the X51 Power Kit. I'm talking full douchebag spec, with chromed Turbo wheels. I was in love at first sight. Rick found out the hard way - quite a few times - that I was damn good behind the wheel of anything with an engine; even though I still didn't have a drivers license. To make a long story short, I drove the car back home. Like a bat out of hell. Or Richard Pryor when he lit himself on fire. That's better. Anyway, on the way up 75 I decided to push the car a bit, as I crept up around 120mph in the left lane a shitty green Kia Pulled in front of me at 65mph. I used the brakes. But I didn't have enough time. I clipped the left rear corner of the Kia and went straight into the guard rail. There was a cloud of dust that surrounded us as we exited the car. Rick took the rap for the accident, by claiming he was driving. The car was ruined, the dashboard was six inches further back then when I picked it up. This is where I'm gonna end the story because the rest is uninteresting, (other than the fact I split my nose open)  but don't worry there's more where this came from, stuff more extreme than this ever was. A lot more about "Rick" and all our adventures and friends. 



Monday, July 15, 2013

The Lincoln Motor Company

I want to get this shit out of the way now, yeah I do have a bias against Ford. Ford is on my short list of things that just need to die forever, like how I wish Tyga just die while recording one of those struggle bars. Like how I wish Tyga would've gotten killed by a tiger while doing the Hotel California cover. That shit is beside the point though. Ford has been putting out hot struggle on four wheels through all of its divisions for years. The Mustang and their trucks are the only products worth actual currency and shit. But Bill Ford the 60.5th, or whatever grandson were on, really fucked up when they restructured or renamed or whatever the fuck with Lincoln. 
I type this as I sit in the passenger seat of a Ford Edge going down I-95 South through Virginia towing home my latest stupid thing. I look out the shitty black plastic interior into the shitty beige plastic interior of a Lincoln MKX barreling past me, I couldn't help but notice that mothafucka looked indentical to the shit I was in, plus it had the same Brownsville, Brooklyn-grade interior that looked like some Puerto Ricans from around the way put it together. I mean, my nigga, that shit is just like a blatant Matrix slap to the face. That's like letting somebody walk through your door, eat your chicken, fuck your girl, take your dog, and leave in your whip and then your dumbass sits there and gives them money and directions to the 7-Eleven. But the MKX is the oldest vehicle in the lineup, let's move on to the 50 Tyson of the Lincoln lineup: the mothafucking MKZ. 
I mean nigga, have you seen this shit? First off, to buy a nicely equipped MKZ you are looking at $47k. Forty-seven-mothafuckin-thousand, fam? Fuck you mean? Mind you, thats for a EcoBoost I4 AWD, par, not even the V6. Now, my nigga, I went and built a Fusion with close to the same level of equipment and that joint was $40k. 7 grand less fam. 7 fuckin thousand. Now 40k for that Fusion is way too much to start with, but $7000 more for a car that not only is uglier, but is basically the same thing, makes you just want to Matrix slap the fuck outta somebody my nigga. Like I want to find Bill Ford the XXVI ¾ and slap that nigga into his great-great-great-great grandmama’s uterus for this rolling travesty. Buying the MKZ over the Fusion is like fucking with a pretty ass bougie chick with natural hair that don’t go through your text messages and switching up and fucking her mildly-retarded little sister that looks like Chief Keef, then get her ugly ass pregnant. It's not so much that the MKZ is a bad car, it's got a decent feeling and looking interior, has okay road manners, and isn't the worst entry-level luxury car out there. BUT it doesn't excuse the fact that a car mechanically identical to it, that looks better, and has most of the same features is available at a much lower price. Why would I throw extra money down on a hooker on U Street, when I can buy an escort online for a lot less money? But that's not all, there's more wrong than just vehicles. 
Remember when presidents limousines were Lincoln Town Cars? Remember when pimps wouldn't mind being seen in a Mark VII? What pimp you know want to slap hoes in a MKS? I mean son, what the fuck made these niggas think it was okay to take a Taurus and not even make the shit look better, then tell yo ass that you gotta pay more for it? Then to further insult a niggas intelligence, we get a fucking MKT in black, and these mothafuckas got the nerve to call it a Town Car. You know what fuck it, my ass just gonna walk to the hotel from the airport since y'all irresponsible ass niggas at Ford decided that I didn't need a respectable looking ride to the damn hotel. Fuck we do to y'all to deserve these travesties, Ford? Y'all think we dumb right? Like I can't see that my MKS is closer in resemblance to a Taurus than Tia and Tamera Mowry.
You know what, lemme wrap this up before I end up getting killed in Detroit by one of the 30 million Ford family members. Or for that matter any random nigga in Detroit. Lincoln isn't gonna survive long cause these niggas at Ford don't care any more. They want to dick old white people around by providing them with shit that is consistently worse than everything else, but still putting a brand on it that they cherish. You know what? Fuck this, fuck Lincoln, and fuck anybody that has supported this shit by buying anything them fuckbwoys been putting out. Peace. Now go listen to Versace 15 more times or something.  


Tuesday, May 28, 2013

The Night

I wrote this incredibly shitty poem over a year ago. For a girl I never loved, but loved fucking. 


As the last tinges of pink leave our oft remembered horizon. Our minds connect through the darkest depths of our eyes. These eyes stay locked here in an attempt to ignore our natural horizon. One, when crossed brings our bodies together in a connection we and others disrespect. So we darken the line on our horizon here again with a hard gaze into our eyes. Right there in the middle of our eyes, oh lord, is the tether that holds us together but keeps our lower horizons apart. The sky finally goes black, and those dark anchors of ours disappear in the impeding darkness. What now? What do you do? What do you do now that your horizon has dissolved with the one belonging to the night sky?