There is a bloke who lives up the road from here.
I suppose, technically speaking a lot of blokes live up the road from here but I’m just referring to one in particular.
This bloke has a car. Again, out of all the local vehicles n the neighbourhood this one in particular stands out. It is bright yellow and is one of those sporty yokes that looks like an elephant sat on it. It would never have any problem with low bridges, no matter how low they are, but he might want to be a little cautious going over speed bumps.
I am particularly aware of this vehicle as it has a megaphone exhaust fitted by the sound of it. And the bloke in question loves the sound of his engine as he tends to drive flat out in the lowest gear possible with the engine screaming out its highest revs. He always sounds like he is in a tearing hurry and his car sounds like it’s tearing steel. It makes one hell of a racket. The only thing I can say in his favour is that the locals, including the kids can hear him coming a mile off and can stand well clear of the road.
I suppose he is trying to impress us all. Us blokes are all supposed to be envious of sporty cars, but this is generally a myth. I personally couldn’t give a shit what other people drive, whether it’s the size, speed or sound. To me, a car is a means of getting me from A to B as simply and an smoothly as possible. The only car I wouldn’t want is a Fiat 500 simply because I wouldn’t fit in it. So long as there is enough room for my legs, the dog, the Missus and any luggage then I’m fine with it.
You know of course what they say about a man’s car being a reflection of the size of his manhood? I have no problems on that score and people can draw their own conclusions. I feel sorry for the bloke up the road though. I’m tempted to stop him and explain how it’s a matter of inheritance and genetics and that it isn’t his fault.
He must just have been born with a minuscule willy.