Buick – The Car That Made America Late
Remember when the only four-wheeled vehicles you had to avoid getting behind in traffic (much like you would avoid lining up behind Rosie O’Donnell in an ice cream parlor) were minivans? It doesn’t seem like it was that long ago, does it?
Minivans were, of course, recently supplanted by the ubiquitous Sport Ute – and for a very good reason, too. Sport Utes – those worthless, never-been-off-road symbols of “socially challenged” women and toad-like dickless weasels everywhere – were introduced to the American market to alleviate the sadly true impression that if you drove a minivan, your life was over.
Think about it, men… *
* I say “men” because there’s just no talking to a woman on this subject because the vast majority of them are completely devoid of having any “car soul” whatsoever – seriously, go ask a random woman what a clutch does and try not to fall down laughing when they hit you with that “Why don’t you just stare at my tits like every other guy does?” look to avoid the question.
…if you hadn’t checked your balls at the door and started breeding a screaming herd of dirt-eaters like some oversexed Third World potentate, would YOU drive a fucking minivan?
Alright, I’ll deal with the subject of how to electrocute children while they’re in the bathtub and claim that they were attempting to make Pop Tarts when the cops find the Timmy’s lifeless body floating over the toaster in another article and I’ll probably touch on the subject of where to look for your balls while you’re murdering the kids, but for now, let’s move on, shall we?
So you’ve avoided the trap and your life isn’t over because you don’t drive a minivan, but…
…Is that you I’m pulling up behind at a stoplight? The one who isn’t immediately moving off the line even though the light turned green a full two seconds ago?
You don’t have anyone in front of you, so what the fuck’s your problem?
Are you waiting for a different shade of green?
It’s the long one on the right, dumb-ass.
Dick caught in the steering wheel again?
Oh, there you go – finally.
Uh… Why is it taking you this long to get through the intersection?
Forget where the fire was?
Hoping for an engraved invitation from that guy that was next to you at the light to invite you over for dinner at the house he’s built in a neighboring state while you were trying to reach the fucking speed limit?
It’s not like you’re driving a miniva—
Oh, Jesus! NOOOooooooooooooo!!!
How did I fuck up and not ID this dust-farter when I was picking a lane at the red light? Is there no God?!? It’s… It’s…
It’s a motherfucking BUICK!
Take me now, Lord! Kill me! KILL ME NOW!
Please ship my sorry ass to Heaven, Lord, because I’M ALREADY IN HELL!!!
No, this dramatic reenactment was not being brought to you by some charming school kids from PS-1138 in Manhattan. Instead, this nightmare is happening right NOW – and it’s happening all across America. It’s the Curse of the Buick, and the only cure is vehicular MANslaughter.
I’m serious, people. I’m starting a national movement to pass legislation making it legal for thee and me to kill every post-smoggy-motor Buick owner who won’t – not can’t, won’t – accelerate to the posted – any posted – speed limit from a dead stop at rate that is equal-to-or-less-than one-second-per-every-posted-ten-kilometer-per-hour-increment.
For the nine public-school-educated readers of this website who’ve made it past the introductory epigram and haven’t stopped reading when they didn’t find any bestiality shots of naked Chinese cowboys in Milwaukee, this means that; if a Buick driver were sitting at a stop sign or a red light and the posted speed limit were, let’s say, 35mph, he or she would have only 5.632704 seconds to reach 35mph. If they did not, thee or me could simply pull up alongside them (assuming that we haven’t died of boredom or fallen asleep, that, and depending on the number of available passing lanes and/or the opposing traffic breaks) and shoot them in the head from the decadent comfort of our color-matched Recaros. Of course, if the speed limit is something higher – like 55mph at the top of an onramp – that still means they only have 8.851392 seconds to reach the posted limit.
I know some of you are doing some quick 0-60 times in your heads for the car or truck you drive and thinking, “Man, I don’t own something that can do close to zero-to-sixty in six seconds, and even giving me a full ten seconds to reach 100kph (62.13712mph), I don’t think the poor Datsun can do it. Oh, no… The Blank couldn’t possibly have it in for me – could he?”
Well, unless you’re driving a Buick (or a minivan) I’ll probably let you slide with just a warning shot. I mean, if you don’t drive a car or truck that can do 0-62 in ten seconds, your life is pretty much fucked beyond repair, so as long as you swear not to breed or vote, what could I possibly do to you that’s any worse than your piece-of-shit life already is, anyway?
But back to the dust-farter in the Buick…
I’m the guy who left the light immediately upon it turning green.
No tire smoke…
No planting the foot…
…Just yours truly accelerating to the posted speed limit without drama or having some committee decide if I should have moved when the light changed, that’s all.
I’m the guy who’s driving at or within 7mph over the posted speed limit (outside of known radar traps, that is – just ask my perpetually amazed friends if you doubt me) some 99.44% of the time (I made a deal with Yahweh for the remainder). I’m pretty easy to spot in traffic, too, because…
…I’m also the guy who will eventually be passed by the same Buick that took fucking forever to reach the speed limit; the same one that is now traveling at seventeen-miles-per-hours over it.
Yeah, old people near death are a hoot, but until The Blank gets this vital “anti-aging” legislation passed, you and I must remain serene and patient – and not start merrily redecorating the interiors of Park Avenues
with brain matter and bloody muck.
Well, not yet, at any rate.
I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it’s got to be. Once you can come to grips with the fact that God hates you the next time you’re trapped behind a beige Regal and you’re late to meet your buddies at the tit bar, your high blood pressure should stabilize and a feeling of calm will replace the one of sheer dread you’ve had since it took you ten seconds to cross that last intersection. Remember, friends, the Good Lord has a plan
for you, and if you’re getting butt-slammed in the joint because you lost it and blew away Sheldon in his ridiculous 163bhp (actual) Reatta, God will be too busy laughing at you to reveal said master plan.
And speaking of Buick Reattas…
No, on second thought, let’s don’t speak of Reattas. My readers (the ones who have car soul, at least) have no doubt heard about the two consecutive auto-show appearances where GM got the stupid idea that they would build a new Reatta from the ground up on a turntable (like the ones that would later be used to build GM’s soulless Saturns) in front of the shows’ tens-of-thousands of attendees to introduce their brand new model and to show the world how it’s done.
The first one, the one built at the Detroit Auto Show, wouldn’t start once it was completed. The second one, the one built at the L.A. Auto Show, wouldn’t start, either.
But that’s not the Buick in question today, no…
The Buick in question today is the one in front of you while you’re attempting to drive.
That Buick is not (and never will be) a “real” Buick… Buicks like the GS-400, GS-455, and the GSX (the former having been introduced in 1967; the latter two debuting in 1970). Regardless if they’re a Stage I or whatever, they were, and are, real cars driven by real people; people who are not merely killing time until they die while they’re driving (not merely pointing) their real Buick down the road. The “Real Car vs. Smoggy/Fart Car” issue will be dealt with in a later article (my hatred is simply too intense right now for me to think clearly enough to present my loyal readers a historical argument for my case against post-1971 low-comps and FWD’s), so… Please bear with me as I give you the dirty details of just whom you and I should be able to kill on sight.
Oh, and don’t start in with me about the Turbo Grand Nationals introduced in the mid-80’s. Their reputation was built on a single issue of AutoWeek, wherein they tested a brand new “any-color-you-want-as-long-as-it’s-black” Regal Grand Nat on a Winter’s day with an ambient temperature of (get this) only 14º Fahrenheit; meaning that the artificially aspirated engine was cranking out at least 30% more horsepower than normal due to the much denser incoming air charge – well, that and the fact they preheated the track surface so there’d be no wheel spin. Yep… Instant slicks.
Sean Penn drove one of these cars. Well, he did until it got stolen during some anti-Gulf II speech while he was inside a hotel whining about America and its “evil” fighting men and women.
Fuck his car.
And fuck you for even bringing it up.
So where the fuck was I?
Oh, fuck it…
It doesn’t really matter, anyway.
I mean, I’ve given you more than enough hatred to aim at a specific subsection of humanity; i.e., old White people who (these days) worship at the throne of a young Black golfer. These pathetic wrinkled wretches need to be removed from the face of the earth post haste, so you’ve got a full day ahead of you already.
“Old people should be killed at birth.”
— Cathy Matt, Tucson Traffic Philosophy Major