If you are like most of the country, you have been affected by the monstrous winter storm that toilet papered the country. If you took a look at the weather forecast, shrugged your shoulders and said to no one in particular, "Only in [your state of residence]," then you are seriously under-informed. Just because it was warm yesterday and will be cold tomorrow does not make your state the focal point of some kind of weather anomaly. It means that you should put on a coat.
OK, so you're wearing a coat now. Good. It's still fucking cold, though. It's not exactly go-outside-and-enjoy-the-weather type of weather. Or is it?
Next to my hotel is an empty parking lot covered in ice and snow. Being as how I was given a Dodge Charger for a rental car this week, I thought I'd see how the Hemi-equipped, grocery-getting sedan handled through a few donuts. [For those of you located under a rock, a "donut" in this context is a complex maneuver performed by turning the steering wheel of a rear-wheel drive vehicle all the way to one direction and stomping on the gas pedal, resulting in an impressive display of controlled chaos. Chicks dig this.] I hurried to my cloud white Dodge parked out front and tried to not lose my footing since I couldn't help but skip a little. Closing the door behind me, I sat down in the driver's seat, breathed into my hands and rubbed them together to rattle off some of the cold. Turning the key, my grin widened. The Charger queefed to life. I hadn't really paid attention to the vehicle's underwhelming engine sound until this moment, but I really expected something more thunderous. No matter, though. This is going to rule!
Excitedly, I changed the station on the satellite radio to my favorite rock channel. Nickelback. Delete preset station. Whatever, I'll just find something else. This was a pretty important part of my plan. A proper exhibition of careless driving requires a certain ambiance. I've already conceded to having a vagina fart for an exhaust system, I'm not about to give up my tunes without a fight. I flipped through the stations. Lame, lame, laaaaame, lame, lame, "ALL THE SINGLE LADIES, ALL THE..." I mean, lame. The next station was empty silence and, just before I continued on, I heard the bell ring. "DUR DA DUN DAA DAA DUN DA DAH DUN DAAA" I glared down the hood and cracked my knuckles as "Hell's Bells" began to play. It's on.
With the windows down (ambiance), I crept into the center of the empty lot and put the car in neutral. After holstering my air guitar, I goosed the gas pedal a couple times. "Pffffft. Pfffffffffft." Oh yeah. Forgot.
With one arm hanging out the window, I cranked the wheel all the way to the left, shifted into drive and FLOORED IT!!! The 2011 Dodge Charger responded to this carefully executed demonstration of masculinity by creeping forward like it was being piloted by a nervous septuagenarian driving in the big city for her first time on the way to her grandson's graduation. TRACTION CONTROL!!!
WHAT THE HELL?!
I tore open the glove compartment and rifled through the owners manual, searching for the section on traction control. Turns out, this vehicle does not have the option to turn off traction control. A vehicle sharing its name with the greatest bootlegging vehicle in Hazzard County does not allow tire spin.
Sigh.
Windows up.
Volume down.
Park.
Martini at the hotel bar.
The moral of this story (write this down): If you cannot find something fun to do outside in the bitter cold, drink a couple martinis.
