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Sorry to bomb the list, but I just saw this on the "tiger" mail list &
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Date: Fri, 16 Oct 1998 10:07:12 -0400
From: Doug Mallory <firstname.lastname@example.org>
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Subject: Humor No Tiger Content Rated G
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Reply-To: Doug Mallory <email@example.com>
Here's something I thought you guys might enjoy....
>I borrowed my wife's Geo Metro last night. One liter of raw power, 3
>cylinders of asphalt-tearing terror on thirteen-inch rims. It's stock,
>alright, nothing done to it, but it pushes the barely 2000 pounds of
>around with AUTHORITY. I'm always catching mopeds and 18-wheelers by
>I was headed back from Baskin Robbins with my manly triple-latte
>cappuccino blast ("No Cinnamon, ma'am, I take it BLACK"), when I
>at a streetlight. As the Metro throbbed its throaty idle around me, I
>sipped my bold beverage and wiped the white froth my stiff upper lip. I
>was minding my own business, but then I heard a rev from the next lane.
>I turned, made eye contact, then let my eyes trace over the
>Ford Festiva -- a late model, could be trouble.
>Low profile tires, curb feelers, and schoolbus-yellow paint. Yep, a hot
>rod, for sure.
>The howl of his motor snapped my reverie, and I looked back into the
>driver's eyes, nodded, then blipped my own throttle. As I tugged on my
>driving gloves and slipped on my sunglasses (gotta look cool to be
>and I am *damn* cool, hence...), the night was split with the sound of
>seven screaming cylinders...
>Then the light turned... I almost had him out of the hole, my three
>pounding cylinders thrusting me at least a millimeter back into my
>as smoke pouring from my front right tire... my unlimited slip
>differential was letting me down! I saw in the corner of my eyes, a
>snout gaining, and I heard the roar of his four cylinders. He slung by
>right front wheel juddering against the pavement, and he flashed me a
>smile as his .7 extra liters of motor stretched its legs. I kept my
>gamely in it, though, waiting for the CHECK ENGINE light to blink on in
>the one-gauge (no tachometer here!) instrument panel. I saw a glimpse
>chrome under his bumper, and knew the ugly truth...
>He was running a custom exhaust -- probably a 2-into-1 dual exhaust ...
>maybe event cutouts! Damn his hot-rod soul! The old lady passing us on
>crosswalk cast a dirty look in our boy-racer direction...
>Yet still I persisted, with my three pumping pistons singing a heady
>high-pitched song, wound fully out. Though only a few handfuls of
>had passed, we were nearing the crosswalk at the other side of the
>intersection, and I heard the note of his engine change as he made his
>shift to second, and I saw his grin in his rearview mirror fade as he
>missed the shift! I rocketed by, shifting, and nursed the clutch gently
>to keep from bogging, keeping my motor spinning hot and pulling me
>now trailing a cloud of stinking clutch smoke. Not ready to give up so
>easily, he left his foot in it, revving, and I heard one wheel *almost*
>chirp as he finally found second and dropped the clutch. We careened
>the crosswalk, now going at least 15 miles per hour. A bicyclist passed
>us, but intent on the race as we were, neither of us batted an eye.
>He pulled slowly abreast of me, and neck and neck, we made the shift to
>third, the scream of motors deafening all pedestrians within a five
>circle. He nosed ahead as we passed 30 miles an hour, then eased in
>of me, taunting, as we shifted into fourth. I was staring up the dual
>chrome tips of his exhaust, snarling, my cappuccino forgotten, as he
>lifted a little to take the next corner.
>I saw my opportunity, and counting on the innate agility of my trusty
>steed, I pulled wide into the number two lane and kept my foot buried
>carpet. Slowly, I inched around him, feeling my Metro roll slowly to
>left as I came abreast in the midst of this gradual sweeping turn. I
>the Geo ease onto its suspension stops, and felt the right rear wheel
>slowly leave the ground - no matter, though, because my drive wheels,
>front, were pulling me through the corner, and around the Festiva ...
>The Ford driver beat his wheel in rage as my wife's car eased past him
>the outside, my P165/54R13's screaming in protest, as we raced to the
>light. We coasted down, neck-and neck, to the red light. I tightened my
>driving gloves, ready for another round, when this WIMP in the next car
>meekly flipped his turn signal and made a right. Chevy (Suzuki)
>I drove off sipping my masculine drink, awash in my sheer virility,
>looking for other unwitting targets.... Perhaps a Yugo, or maybe even a