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Don't Make A Grown Man Cry

"Spread out the oil, the gasoline. I walk smooth, ride in a mean, mean machine. Start it up."

~ The Rolling Stones

From the rumbling engines of muscle cars to the sleek purr of finely-tuned imports, my love for vehicles knows no bounds. Whether it's a four-wheeled beauty, a roaring motorcycle, or a nimble two-wheeler, the passion courses through my veins. My wife, the unsuspecting co-pilot in this journey, has weathered the storm of my vehicular obsession since the day we tied the knot, and even before that.

Blessed or cursed, depending on how you see it, with the ability to envision a car transformed to my liking, I find joy in modifying every vehicle that graces my garage. It's not everyone's cup of tea to tinker with the aesthetics or performance, but for me, it's a fiery passion that refuses to be extinguished.

My taste in vehicles is as particular as a sommelier's palate for fine wine. Japanese precision, German engineering, and the raw power of American muscle—my fleet has danced through the international symphony of automotive excellence. Though, truth be told, there's a special place in my heart for American steel, perhaps because Italian elegance is a bit beyond my budget.

The combined horsepower of my eclectic collection over the years has surged past the 8,500 mark, a testament to the thunderous symphony of power that resides in my garage.

Every vehicle, a unique personality, has been bestowed with a name. I firmly believe that a named vehicle is a cared-for vehicle. After all, who wouldn't want to pamper a machine with a personality of its own?

In my world, eating in a vehicle is a cardinal sin. A pristine interior and an immaculate exterior are non-negotiables. Cleanliness is not just a matter of aesthetics; it's a ritual that unveils potential hazards and keeps the mechanical heart beneath the hood beating strong. Rain used to be nature's car wash; now, it just seems to add insult to the vehicular injury. The lines at the carwash after a storm are a testament to the collective disdain for dirty vehicles. Before every road trip, a thorough cleaning ritual ensues, much to the bewilderment of my wife, Megan. She may not understand my need for a spotless vehicle, but it's a ritual I uphold with unwavering dedication.

A vehicle in my possession is destined for modification; it's a code I live by. Regular maintenance is not just a chore; it's a pledge to keep the mechanical soul content. Neglect is a sin that can leave you stranded on the unforgiving roadside, a fate no one wishes upon their loved ones.

So, treat your vehicle like family. Invest in it, personalize it, and occasionally, let it unleash its inner beast with a burnout. A simple air freshener is the minimum, but if opportunity allows, grace her with a set of sexy wheels and tires. For in the world of vehicles, as in life, the wrong choice is evident when you don't look back after walking away. If you don't feel that magnetic pull, you're driving the wrong car.


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