You know, we're like the inverse of Funkmaster Flex. He's wide. We're thin. He's rich. We're poor. He hips to the hop. We punk out. He's black. We're white. But, despite the differences in views on how a car should be properly customized, we share the same view on great raw materials: "A '69 Charger R/T 440 six-pack. Mine was bronze. I still got it. Screamin'. Now I got a '70 Chevelle, and a '66, a '67, a '69, a '71 and a '73. I got two '68 Camaros, two '69s, I got a '68, a '69 and '70 Mustang. I think I have about 30 cars right now."
Denton needs to step up and build us a Jalopnik Shop. We'll get Bumbeck to run the thing and Danny Boy to find cars and be the PR type. Us? We'll just come up with ridiculous ideas. Maybe we can convince Fang Huang to come out and work on cars and make us lunch. Meanwhile, while we're fantasizing, we'll have BBQs every weekend with lots of vegetarian options. 1st Gen Celica GTs. Dodge Rampages. AMC Eagles. 2nd Gen Trans Ams. Old, tired slingshot dragsters. Mercedes Pontons. Beat-up, primered Countaches. Model A Coupes built in the 1970s. Anything with a 340 in it. Desmond Dekker and Operation Ivy on the sound system. And rad, hot punk chicks. Lots of rad, hot punk chicks. Who read Bukowski and Kundera and know the difference between a Hemi and a Slant Six. And then we'll all hop in our Meyers Manxes and go to the beach to play volleyball, drink Mountain Dew, watch the sun set and have makeouts.