Tuner Kids PDF Print E-mail
Written by BooYa   
Saturday, 04 July 2009 07:44
So I have this perverse fascination with helping the kids who overestimate the speed
of their cars to find out how disappointing their lives really are. Hi-flo exhaust does
not a street racer make, but in the small-yet-wishes-to-be-bigger city which I call home,
the tuner kids do not realize that sounding fast doesnt make you fast.  Another thing
they dont realize is that when they, in all their misguided glory, try to make a start
from a stoplight into a competitive driving exercise - that hi flo muffler that sounds
loud yet offers so little performance - lets you hear just how badly they are at running
through the gears of their own car. Now I drive a V8 and that itself does not mean that
I can outperform any small import car.  It is a mid 90's T-Bird LX, no not even the
supercharged option.  It is low mileage and kept care of, minus my reluctance to
actually wash the exterior.  Yet, it has the appearance of a boring sedan and even better
yet, there is at most times a carseat in my backseat, to further drive in the dagger
to the unsuspecting tuner kid.
Tonight I pull up to a stoplight and look over to the car beside me when I hear loudly
played music, tinny with a lack of represented lower frequencies.  All 4 windows are
completely open allowing the music it's full ability to be shared with others outside
of his vehicle.  I smile politely and look forward again, thinking to myself how sad
it is that Hispanic kids with a slight build can disgrace themselves with B-List rap
played overly loud on such a weak system.  When the light turns green the previously
discussed overbored exhaust system immediately alerts me to this young man's intentions.
His less-than-impressive Mitsubishi Eclipse takes off like a tired old horse with epilepsy.
My immediate reaction is to keep pace with him, humiliating him in not only his inadequacy
but also in my ability to taunt him with a precise matching of his speed.
As we both stop simultaneously at the next light he smiles over at me, barely a brow over
the ledge of the door and raises the volume on the music to a distorted level.  A matching
smile on my lips took place as I realized I could shatter that last remaining hope for his
need to show some perceived superiority.  I calmly raised my system to a disorienting
volume as I watched his smile fade.  Not lost on his Hispanic self was the fact that the
white boy looking at him was now shaking his underperforming Mitsubishi with deafeningly
loud reggaeton.
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