To my kind and tolerant neighbors, all nearby innocent elementary school children, and every sensitive songbird that used to visit my bird feeder:
It’s not my fault. I wholeheartedly blame the husband. That being said, I would like to apologize for the recent disturbance that has altered our normally tranquil suburban community. I have tried my best over the years to be the type of wife who could squelch every last bit of her husband’s desires, personality and enjoyment in life. I have failed miserably. Despite my best efforts, the husband still loves his 1969 Camaro.
It was this Camaro that received a new racing engine this past week. I realize that this engine has caused much distress in your life. I realize this engine is unreasonably loud and obnoxious, vibrates the very foundations that your homes sit upon and is, quite possibly, illegal in 9 states. My friends, I also share your concerns. However, because I’ve been married to the husband for many decades now, I am obligated by the marital contract to offer up some sort of defense in support of him. I do this, of course, with the implicit assumption that you will not involve law enforcement officials in any manner whatsoever.
Evidently, my friends, the thunderous blasting that has been let loose from my once peaceful garage is not the annoying disturbance we have initially perceived it to be. I am aware that some of you were in fear that a jumbo jet crash landing in your bathtub was imminent. I know that many of your napping babies were unceremoniously jolted awake. And I myself have been witness to particularly panicky pets disappearing for days on end. I’ve been informed by the husband, however, that we should not fear. Apparently, this deafening display of horsepower and the occasional heart stopping crescendo of simulated acceleration is actually quite necessary and very, very su-weeeet. Perhaps even, righteous…dude. This beautiful gift of horsepower comes from the somewhat uncommon yet quite extraordinary high compression, high lift racing engine. What a privilege it is to be privy to a sound that is so rarely heard in suburban enclaves such as ours. We are so lucky. So sayeth the husband.
Evidently, my friends, the chest pounding tremors that have emanated from this monster of an engine is a sure sign of gearhead success. It’s true that these other worldly vibrations are usually reserved for California fault line dwellers. I know that your wall decorations have vibrated off the wall and have fallen to the ground. And I can confirm that these vibrations have even caused the weak bladdered among us to experience mild urinary leakage. But that is the trade off, apparently, when you are dealing with uncompromised, large bore excess. This unrestrained, quake like experience is the result of a simple but proud pursuit of unrestricted power without bowing to the unreasonable expectations and limitations of neighborhood civility. The husband does not feel that his choice of 3 inch pipes on a dual exhaust is indicative of any rudeness, insensitivity or unmannerly behavior at all. Any engine can sound good. But to reach true engine nirvana, you must feel it. So sayeth the husband.
I am fully aware that there has been a gasoline and exhaust smell that has permeated our neighborhood. I know that this smell has caused fits of gagging in otherwise healthy and tolerant wives. And I suspect that this awful odor is 97% responsible for the recent air pollution warning in our greater metropolitan area. But it goes without saying, that this is merely the gratifying, beautiful, retina burning evidence that high octane racing fuel is present. The burn characteristics of this sweet nectar from the racing gods serves to increase horsepower, acceleration and general combustion efficiency. It should be revered and not reviled. So sayeth the husband.
I’d like to tell you, my friends, that after my loving and non judgemental confrontation with the husband over this engine and its unpleasant side effects, that he has vowed to change his ways. This would not be true. I must admit, that yet again, I have failed to squelch the husband. As a result, the husband has issued the following statement:
“To all non-gearheads: You must realize this ain’t no grocery getter. This beautiful blend of muscle and steel is built to haze the hides. This righteous ride is now equipped with a stroker mouse motor. This baby is now ported, overbored, jetted up and ready to rock and roll. And with her new rubber rake, a new light up tach and a tranny signed by Dirty Dan himself she is now ready to meet the tree. And finally, I honestly don’t understand your complaints about the noise. I mean really, it’s not like I left her uncorked.”
So sayeth the husband.
Pray for me, my friends. You can see what I’m dealing with here.
Check This Out!
If you too find yourself unexpectedly receiving cable channels that you have not paid for, then may I strongly suggest that you start watching Star Wars: The Clone Wars on the Cartoon Network. The boy and the teenager give it two thumbs up.
Of course, if you prefer, you could also watch this. It would make the husband so proud.