Isn't the innocence of children great? I can tell my ten year old son that I've left him a little something in the kitchen i.e a fart and he'll go in to check what it is each and every time. Someday that gullibility will be gone forever and I shall have to get my kicks from letting out a silent one whilst we all sit around watching TV. Ah, who am I kidding, I do that now anyway.
I was sitting at the lights today admiring a big shiny HSV across the intersection until I noticed the driver pick his nose and eat it. Which I thought probably says a lot about owners of big shiny, attention getting cars, but it didn't half leave me feeling quite good, sitting their in my modest passion wagon, made from the finest Korean steel and in which I have never picked my nose and eaten it.
I love cars as much as the next guy who hopes that driving a big flash car will somehow influence people’s perception of his penis size. Which not so long ago was probably the case, but in these tumultuous times where petrol prices are through the roof and with global warming upon us, those drivers of big flash gas guzzlers are alas more likely to be considered by all to have a small dick, not a big one. Why not try shaving it fellas, that always makes it look bigger.
I do like cars. Not in a 'rub my bits against it' Mecaphilliac kind of way, but I admire a good looking motor. If I was being completely honest I might admit to cracking the smallest of chubbies when around an Audi R8 with all the bells and whistles, or a BMW M3, but that’s about it. I'm not going to go out and buy the jacket and matching cap or nothing. I do find myself admiring classics more though these days, particularly muscle cars but then I've always had a thing for The General Lee (a Dodge Charger) and if I had more money than sense I'd be cruising around in one quicker than you can fantasise about Jessica Simpson playing Daisy Duke..
Which leads me to make this other stark confession; the other day my wife put Solid Gold on the radio and guess what? I didn't change it. Classic cars and classic music, I think I'm turning into my Dad. Which is bad news for my boy because my old man left the country when I was about ten and I've never seen, nor heard from him since. I do know where and how he is, courtesy of an uncle, but even he struggles to get any info out of a marriage so locked down to outside contact you'd think my father had married Tom Cruise. Maybe he has. Maybe whilst I was off becoming a man he became a woman, Katie Holmes to be precise. And to think I was turned on by seeing her milkers in 'The Gift'.
I admire dudes who paint their own cars. It must be incredibly liberating to give your motor a paint job that is distinctly un-factory, like the camo job on the old Escort down the main road. Or the classic Holden with the bench seats that does the local rounds, it has an Aboriginal paint job that I know full well could not have been completed in such fine detail without the aide of several large spliffs.
But that's car envy for you. The penultimate stage for a fella in a lifetime full of envy. The final stage is young girl envy, which kicks in about now I think. Maybe that’s why I’m thinking the good looking girl at work should be my PA for no other reason than looks. I don’t need a PA but having one – especially a looker – would make me the envy of all the other fellas in the office.
Envy starts when you're young with something innocuous, like cricket bats. My mate Willie G was always wielding the flashest, shiniest, newest Gray Nicholls bat and man did it give me the shits. Figuratively speaking of course, it's not like we were ever doing anything with cricket bats that would physically give me diarrhoea. How he ever afforded them I never did quite figure out because his family had less money than mine but his parents were always the kind to put their kids wants first. I admire that greatly now but oh how I hated them for it back then.
I must have penned several dastardly plots to pinch Willies bats but even the best sand and repaint job was never going to mask a stolen bit of willow, not when we played for hours on end every day at the local park. So I made do like everyone else and enjoyed my turn with it when it came and to Willie's credit, he always gave you a turn with it. The jammy bastard.
The closest I ever came to getting my hands on my own sparkling Grey Nicholls was when I arranged for my mate and then local gang banger Rob to grab one in a smash and grab on the front window of the local Sterling Sports. To his credit he did get it, but subsequently used it in helping break the glass in a few more smash and grabs that night so it wasn't so sparkling when eventually I received it.
Still, I looked the business standing at the crease with it and that was all I was really after. And not once, no matter how great I thought I was or how cool I looked, did I ever pick my nose and eat it.
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