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Why are there no more manly cars? Certainly, things are better now than they were in the 1980s, when manliness consisted of tacked-on plastic bits to compensate for emissions-controlled horsepower strangulation. Today, you can stroll right up to Claus Ettenberger and say, "I'll have your beefiest Brabus," and do it with far less shame than you would walking up to minimum-wage Ralph at the local pr0n emporium and asking for the latest Veronica Moser film.

But as impressive as a beefy Brabus is; as terrifying as its torque can be to something even as entirely inanimate as one's long-dead pork loin languishing on an artfully-appointed slab of porcelain, the damn car's still not as manly as a wheezing Opel Manta shotgunned by the death of a thousand rusts. This, friends, is a problem. We request that you stop waxing your chests immediately. We ask you to sacrifice build-quality and horsepower for questionable weight reduction and a hint of consistently-impending disaster.

We also ask you to add your two cents, with some caveats. Anything Burberry stays at the door, unless you own a Bugeye Sprite and are over the age of 153. OTOH? Dolce & Gabbana? Yes, please. Versace? As long as it's accompanied by a broken Ferrari part from 1981 or earlier (unintentionally-cubed Lamborghini Urracos also accepted). Armani on a case-by-case basis. Al Navarro's hairshirt is fine, as long as he states his case while listening to R.E.M.'s Chronic Town EP and posts from Athens, Georgia — with verifiable evidence that he has done so. Corduroy Ocean Pacific shorts? You need not ask permission for anything, friends. Especially if you have impeccable calves. Now get to it.

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