Tonight, on a perfect 74 degree night, I was out buzzing around. Well, whataya know, here comes an SRT-4! This one looked to be 100% stock, but the little fartknocker behind the wheel was driving aggressively (shocking, huh?). I let him pass me and tailed him a little. Finally, I was rewarded by the Ricer-hating Gods - I lined up next to him at the light.
He looked over at me. He had a look on his face of a man driving an Enzo. I looked at him pretty much exactly like this, daring him to give it his best shot:

I wasn't convinced he wanted to race, so I left the light normally. So did he - for about 10 feet. Then he punched it. His motor screamed 4-cylinder hell. He was up about two car lengths when I punched it myself. I couldn't believe how fast I reeled him in. I passed him with ease, grinning with hate. After hitting about 60, I slowed down with at least three or four lengths on him. Any guesses what he did?
Ricer flyby.
Oh well, should I have expected anything less? That POS car inspires dumbassness. I turned off and headed home.







