Porsche. The thought of the word to a twelve-year-old boy causes so much desire. The sight of one of these luxurious yet "manly" vehicles makes the heart start thumping; makes the tongue shape itself so that the words, "I want one when I grow up" loosely spill out. It is the epitome of "cool."

Porsche. The thought of the word to an enlightened, semi-affluent, semi-environmentally conscious twenty-seven-year-old causes so much frustration. The sight of one of these materialistic yet debt-encouraging monstrosities make the face distort into the likes of a demon out of a Stephen King novel. It’s not the cars, per say. It’s the people in the cars.

Who do they think they are? Having a Porsche does not give one free reign of the road… or anything for that matter. Half of the Porsche owners out there have such high car payments that the only houseguests they encounter are their pet rats and cockroaches.

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe owning a Porsche is the answer to that age-old question:

What is the meaning of life?

Well, the fucking meaning of life just cut me off!!!