the cells in the brain go 'ow ow ow'
There are two possibilities for this vehicle.
Possibility #1: Professional job.
Implication #1: Money was spent.
Implication #2: Someone actually gets paid to do this sort of thing.
Possibility #2: Homegrown.
Implication #1: Too cheap to pay for real paintjob (come to think of it, this falls under Possibility #1 as well)
Implication #2: Friends stood by and let this happen.
Bad, bad friends. Must spank friends. Friends are supposed to tell you when you make stupid mistakes. Think about it: there are certain things you would want a friend to tell you, even though it might piss you off in the interim.
- Hey, wanker, it's bad news to stick your fingers into the buzz saw!"
- "The yellow snow tastes gross. I know this from personal experience. Just trust me.'
- "I saw his test results. I don't care if he's the cutest thing you've ever seen; he has a raging case of the clap."
- "Remember when you wanted that Billy Ray Cyrus Forever tattoo, and I said you'd regret it in the morning?"
- "Dude, that fence is electrified - piss on the tree."
- "Yes, I said "America's Most Wanted." Yes, it was really your girlfriend. You do not want to go back over there."
- "No, man, Rocky Mountain Oysters are NOT oysters. Get the steak. Trust me."
You want me to shut my prattletrap and get to the photos?
Fine. I present to you the XTREME Tangram Truck. While I contend that it defies description, I must warn you that protective goggles are necessary to view these photos.
(How do I know that it's XTREME? Because it told me so -- and we all know that decals never, ever lie --)
(Management: please insert boilerplate language here about how I'm not responsible for eyes bleeding, mental fugue states, convulsions, or other generally unsavory medical conditions that may result from viewing these photos. I'd type it in, but I'm on a roll here.)
Today's realization: prior to today, I didn't know that 'light' trucks, with the addition of specially-formatted tangrams, can become 'faster-than-light' trucks. I'd heard such rumors before, but chose to discount them as easily-scoffable urban legends. In the moments before the owner caught up with your valiant photographer (more on that later) I took very careful and accurate data samples of his truck (using only the finest of scientific rice measurements), which prove without doubt that this truck has traveled at or above light speed at some point in the recent past.
However, the risks of sub- and trans-light travel speeds are enormous, and must be carefully weighed before deciding to tangram one's truck. The stresses of trans-light travel are known to strip the paint from the side panels and windshield wipers of one's carefully-tuned vehicle:
Aerodynamic performance is critical to making the leap between sub-light and trans-light speeds. Attention must be paid to even the smallest details. We applaud the owner of this truck for choosing to streamline his vehicle by choosing to replace draggy, un-aerodynamic door handles with remote keyless entry on both the driver and passenger doors. However, we must question his decision to use non-retractable side mirrors, given their known issues with causing drag.
Remember: confused passengers can have their confusion explained away, but until the flow of time can be reversed at will, time lost through bad aerodynamics is lost forever.
The photographer also suspects that the current damaged state of the taillights (note exposed wiring and what appears to be a plastic bag and some tape) is due to the most recent trans-light flight, and that these temporary mechanical issues will be repaired prior to the next launch.
We are also impressed by the yellow "rotors" on the back wheels of the truck. We were unaware that such things were ever placed on the back wheels of light trucks, and would desperately love to know what metal is made in such bright shades of yellow. We can only conclude that his capability for trans-light travel has enabled him to travel to other, more riced, universes, whose faux brake rotor technologies far outweigh our own.
There is one last photo; I will save it for the very end of this entry.
* * * * *
As I was walking away from the vehicle, planning to stow my camera back in the car, I heard a voice: "Why are you taking pictures of my truck?"
I turned around. Oh, this could be interesting.
Mentally, I blessed Heather's photographer's legal handbook, which I had spirited away to the guest bedroom one night and read extensively. Before I answered, I looked around and made sure of myself: public place? Check. Have not physically touched vehicle? Check. Not drawing undue attention to myself? Check. Did I have legitimate business reasons for being in the parking lot? (At which point I patted my pocket to ensure that my shopping list was still in it.)
Phew. Check. I was in the clear.
I smiled - best to disarm by not seeming afraid or guilty. "Ah, it's a public place," I said. "I have this hobby - I take pictures of modded cars and post them on my website. It's not a commercial thing - it's a personal thing."
"So you do stories on them?"
"Something like that, yeah."
I slung my tiny camera bag over my shoulder, pulled out my grocery list, and went into the store, mentally kicking myself for not being more observant. By not being seen, annoying scenes can be more easily avoided. I gathered what I needed quickly (forgetting tomatoes and eggs) and walked quickly up to the checkout lane.
He was my bag boy. Damn. More questions.
Luckily, the checker was quick, and the lines were busy. I scrawled my name on the receipt with a minimum of legibility, and was out the door and on my way home very, very quickly.
I had pictures to process. This last photo, of a sticker on his back windshield, confirms many of the things I have long suspected about ricers:
I drove home, giggling.