I rarely pass up a chance to drop some wisdom, because if my shrink’s words are anything to go by, “I’m wiser than most people who have the same condition.” Ahem … which condition? My ego has refused to call my opinion on blue black mini-Subarus (Imprezzas) my two-cents worth. No! This is worth the rest of the money.
I’m just awakening that dead flame; you know. That ghost lurking in the blogosphere’s shadows dubbed “Njoki Chege’s hatred for mini-Subarus owned by males aged 20-something”. Her rant nearly became the evil curtailment to the number of these noisy toys in trade! Just google “njoki chege subaru” to jog your memory.
The ribbon of highway that snakes from the city to Nakuru is such the temptation. It’s worse when you’re in that mobile capsule of a Subaru. Speed is the name of the game here.
Earlier today had me asking, “Have I been living under a rock?” I borrowed a friend’s sprog to play with on the streets over lunch-break. However, those little game over-doings found me on the upcountry highway with a blue wailing infant, thanks to its moderate fuel consumption.
Here’s the rub. Njoki, the women’s goddess, advised feminines to flee to the mountains, away from 20-somethings who ride these beautiful cheetahs. Yes? That’s just exactly what they did when I literally spit fire past Lake Nakuru. Skirts fled. Others clutched their jugs lest they snapped out of their chests.
Catch me dead nursing a blue mini-Subaru Impreza on the street. In short, that capsule isn’t meant to be nursed; it should be projected onto the highway like a bullet on it’s trajectory: no barriers! I’ve seen plain Jane boring type of women in Range Rovers’ co-driver’s seats yet their hair could be having all the fun in a speeding Subaru whose all caution is literally thrown to the winds. Did I just incite people to crash and die?
After experiencing her boa-constrictor-like grip on the tarmac, pretty whirling at the curves and wanton, eardrum-splitting moaning at the bumps, that makes you even more turned on and psyched to ride her; no lady should shun a chance to ride with a Joe in a racing Subaru. Where else do you think you’ll enliven those to-the-moon-and-back fantasies? These rides can land us there darlings!
*Disclaimer: Okay, before the ‘Virgin Atlantics’ maiden their first passenger tour to space and back. Yeah, c’mon!*
Wait, calm your titties. Hey young dudes, I know we drink from the same pot.
Here was my hare-brained idea and you can try this at home. I got a Subaru (yeah, the mini one), buckled my seat-belt and, the key into ignition triggered some tune; that all-familiar 20th Century Fox melody that does it when most movies start. I tested clutch to ensure the exhaust fumes expelled as noisily as volcano farts, sorry, spurts. Then, as if in meditation, I muttered to the horizon, “Come baby come.” I opened me a pack of pop corns, popped a seed into mouth, and ‘marks, set, go!’
Before I’d fully floored the accelerator, she was bridling with rage past the sleuths of traffic-police roadblocks, and the Subaru was already pulling the horizon towards me as I ‘watched’. That was a movie! “Ni kama ndlama”! Better than looking at a perky derriere!
To the moon and back, uh huh, I mean to Nakuru and back in 3 hours!
*What now? No! The Subaru guys didn’t pay me for this. But they should! LOL*