We're not surprised, but there's been a certain amount of literary production emanating from the Jalopnik commenters over the past couple of days. Yesterday, the genre was memoir. Today, we enjoyed something closer to prose poetry. That is, prose poetry conjoined with comix and a certain big green radioactive anti-hero from our collective past. Commenter of the day, take us away.
It is the Lou Ferrigno of motors. It snorts and grumbles, Bill Bixby-like, until you tip your foot into the loud pedal.
Incensed, the monster mill rises to a challenge. The tortured twist of hot steel that is the crankshaft begins to whirl faster, restraining the furiously pounding pistons as ever-larger charges of fuel and air are blasted into hot energy that must, must, must go somewhere.
The turbines wail an eerie asynchronous song, falling in and out of harmony with each other, but all working together to force even larger gasps of air down the throat of the intake system.
The clutch drops. Somewhere far abaft the mighty block of iron, steel and fire, rubber explodes into smoke and stench and a mighty urge that will not be denied. Almost as an afterthought, the car that is wrapped around this unforgiving powerplant begins to move.
The Hulk is loose. And he is angry.
And for composition like that, we must, must, must award the composer COTD.