Nov 30, 2005 04:47 PM
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Detroit, 3:52 AM
Sat Jul 31
26 posts in the last 24 hours
Friggin' Farago decided to make a case for voting the Porsche Boxster S Jalopnik's Car of the Year by tearing down my pick, the Ferrari F430. I could say he makes a good point, but since he doesn't know his ass from a sack of mangelwurzel, I'll just let him prattle on about his beloved Boxster. Later on, he'll get his. Then, when it comes time to vote, let your conscience be your guide. — ed.
Thanks for reading this submission. As the comments following yesterday s initial contest post proves, some enthusiasts are happy choosing our Car of the Year without considering supporting arguments. I am keenly aware that most pistonheads will instantly conclude— quite rightly— that the Ferrari F430 is the rarer, faster, more beautiful and charismatic of our candidates. But I respectfully request that you approach your adjudicative responsibilities with an open-mind, and a willing ear.
Please, before you vote, consider the reality of Ferrari ownership. Now I don t want to initiate an arcane debate about passive safety— even though the enormous assortment of Ferrari photographs on www.wreckedexotics.com reveal a disconcerting lack of roof strength, and a dangerous tendency to split in two. (You could, if so inclined, compare these heaps of twisted metal with the more robust Porsche remains and draw your own conclusions.) No; I want you to think about the dangers of infidelity.
There are women, I m told, who can lure a red-blooded man away from the sanctity of marriage, and place him into such an overwhelming state of sexual intoxication that his ability to perceive his own self-interest disappears completely. And so it is with the F430. Yes, the Ferrari offers the most sensual driving experience extant. But the line between thrashing and crashing is closerthanthis, you are nowhere near skilled enough to bring her back from the brink, and that evil panting little bitch will do everything in her power to lure your ass over the line and into a solid object. We re not talking divorce. We re talking death.
Plenty of enthusiasts will claim they d rather have their candle burn intensely and flame out than spend their entire lives watching the wick gradually and inexorably head for the final flicker. Yeah right. Try saying that when you re heading for a tree in your F430. Oh no; your mind will be silently screaming, I wish I d bought the damn Boxster S. I could be easing her into the garage right now, savoring that wonderful sense of a job well done (having caned your trusty Porker without fear or favor), ready to return to the embraces of my loved ones, anticipating the equal (yet different) joys of hearth and home. And if that nagging shrewbeast gives me more shit, well, I ll just get back in my Boxster S and drive some more.
Besides, do you really want to reward those snotty bastards at Ferrari for treating true believers like you like shit; for making them pay a ton of money (plus premium) for the privilege of owning (i.e. repairing) a car that spends more time in the shop than on the road? Isn t this contest about who makes the better car, not the most intense money-sucking piece of shit? Surely you, of all people, can see beyond those Italian curves and glimpse the inner siren lurking within, luring you to your doom. Owners and former owners: tell the tales. Voters, listen. Then I ll describe what a real sports car can do.
Related:
Jalopnik to Join in the Car of the Year Festivities [internal]
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