Propeller Skies

I love it when bad things happen to Lexus driving badge whores. Only a BMW getting towed would have made this scene better.

notes:

The random pedestrian pictured is not the Lexus owner.

Last Sunday evening, recurring Propeller Skies character The Professor and I went to Atlantic Station for dinner. After wandering around looking for a chain without ten other Atlanta locations, we settled on Rosa Mexicano.

Unfortunately, Rosa Mexicano serves an oxymoron: gourmet Mexican. Because the cuisine of Mexico is inherently basic and bold, attempts to take it upscale and introduce subtlety always result in an overpriced culinary disaster. I ordered the Pablono Enchilada Mole Pollo*, which was acceptable. Unfortunately, it was also sixteen dollars. Additionally, the mole was too sweet and completely overwhelmed the fancy cheese and the chicken.

I do not recommend Rosa Mexicano. Atlanta has several other more authentic and better priced Mexican restaurants.

notes:

* Or something like that. I do not speak Spanish and I do not intend to.

A three dollar cover charge to gain access to a dive bar full of drunk 18 to 24 year old venereal disease ridden sorority girls is an absolute bargain. Too bad the feminazi fun police are protesting this time honored sorority girl mating ritual. However, the feminazi fun police are having no success overcoming three incontrovertible laws of nature, which are:

• Binge drinking is really fun;
• Sorority girls are sluts; and
• Frat boys will fuck anything that moves including, but not limited to, Dalmations, sheep and goats.

I found this slightly dented Oldsmobile in my ghetto fabulous apartment complex parking lot this evening.

In the days of my youth, my good friend Clear-Dogg owned a Hyundai Excel, which did not. One Sunday morning, I had the privilege of driving the aforementioned shoddily constructed and underpowered Excel from Rochester to Buffalo, because Clear-Dogg was suffering from a severe hangover.

After dropping my beloved Acura off at Nalley Collision, Enterprise picked me up and supplied me with a Hyundai Sonata. Because the automotive press has been ejaculating praise all over the redesigned Sonata, I was looking forward to driving it. Unfortunately, the automotive press is clearly on industrial grade crack. The Sonata has exactly two good points, which are:

1. It really is mid size; and
2. The head unit actually plays compact discs encoded with MP3s. Somebody at Acura needs to install this cutting edge technology in the TL.

During the decade or so since the infamous Excel was launched on unsuspecting Americans, Hyundai has managed to copy the reliability of Hondas and Toyotas. However, Hyundai still needs to work on duplicating some important features like a four cylinder engine with some damn power. In contrast to other economy cars I have driven, such as the Mazda 6 or Ford Focus, the Sonata would have trouble out accelerating a 1984 Dodge Caravan. The four cylinder version of the minivan.

Not only is the hamster on a wheel in the engine compartment lazy, he is a thirsty little fucker too. So far, I have achieved 22 miles per gallon with the Sonata. For those keeping score at home, that is precisely two more miles per gallon than I get in my Acura TL.

Another highly annoying feature of the Sonata is the serpentine automatic shift gate. Being forced to drive an automatic sucks enough cock, the irritating shift gate is really unnecessary torture. Car manufacturers need to step away from the focus groups and stop with this bullshit already. I suspect the asinine shift gate has something to do with the completely useless sport shift mode. In theory, this feature allows the car to be shifted like a manual. In practice, the Sonata shifts whenever the hell it wants anyway and takes fucking forever to do it.

Much to my surprise, the Sonata handles competently without excessive body roll. Not great, but much better than the Chevrolet Cobalt, which will make a true believer out of the most hardened atheist when attempting to go around a turn faster than the suggested speed on the yellow warning sign. In contrast, the steering reminds me of Pink Floyd - it is comfortably numb.

If anyone needs me, I will be crying myself to sleep because I know I have to wake up tomorrow morning and drive this motherfucking Korean shitbox to work. This should come as no surprise after the previous statement and the numerous paragraphs above, but I do not recommend the Hyundai Sonata.

The inaugural Propeller Skies True American Hero™ award goes to State Representative Mark Burkhalter, a republican from Alpharetta. Mr. Burkhalter earned this honor by suggesting the State of Georgia return one billion dollars in surplus taxes to the taxpayers through a repeal of the communist car tax*. Amazingly, intelligent life can exist OTP.

I am sure Mr. Burkhalter will be tarred, feathered, drawn and quartered, and ostracized from the capitol for having the novel idea of returning money to the hard working taxpayers.

notes:

* For those readers who are lucky enough to live somewhere besides the Redneck Republic of Georgia, the communist car tax is a punitively high property tax levied against car owners. This tax is anti-American because it [1] inhibits the constitutional right of Americans to own automobiles, and [2] punishes the rich instead of the poor - the higher the value of one’s vehicle, the higher the communist car tax. Also, to add insult to injury, the tax is due on the owner’s birthday.

The Fucktard of the Week™ and his insurance company finally returned a phone call, so my Acura TL will be going in the shop tomorrow morning for two weeks. Apparently, the bumper cover and fender will be hand painted by a team of highly trained Japanese monks whose productivity is measured in square centimeters per day. The monks are also in a union.

Since I love my Acura more than anything else in the world*, I decided to spend a little quality time with her this evening before she goes away. So I took the fun way up to an oxymoron and came back down a route The Professor showed me in the days of way back. The aforementioned route consists of a nice twisty two lane road lined with overpriced starter castles fronting like an old money enclave. Nothing beats the sound of VTEC echoing off the houses in bourgeoisie Atlanta subdivisions.

notes:

* Except maybe my internet porn collection.

The Man, not content with packing us into cubicles and keeping us down, tortured us with Pizza Hut pizza and a 150* slide Powerpoint presentation during lunch today. Amazingly, Pizza Hut has developed pizza with absolutely no flavor.

I like pizza. I have dreams about eating big floppy slices of pepperoni pizza with extra cheese while Lindsey Lohan gives me head. And not the anorexic version of Ms. Lohan, but the one with some meat on her bones and a nice rack. Big floppy pieces of zesty pizza really make the dream. Only some pepperoni rolls from Double Dave’s could improve it. Pizza Hut has succeeded in making me hate pizza.

notes:

* A slight exaggeration. However, I was sleeping and not counting, so there really might have been 150 slides.