Like all villains in the Ghostbusters franchise, the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man is not without his charm. Created by Dan Akroyd and, later, envisioned into a gigantic world-destroyer by Akroyd's character, he's the Bibendum-like mascot for the fictional Stay Puft Marshmallow brand. Being the only large monster in the film, the special effects for him don't always work out. For example, his costume changes a few times with the bow-tie appearing and disappearing. He also appears to pass through a church instead of stomping through it as intended. Nevertheless, the big mistakes don't always ruin things, as Grive explains in today's QOTD.

My first time at the NĂĽrburgring. My apologies, but an inevitable wall of text must follow.

I was young, I was stupid (wait, I still am both), and I wanted to drive the legendary green hell. I didn't have the budget or the presence of mind (or the age, mind you) to go to a specialized car rental agency.

So, off to unnamed chain rental place! I was promised a 1 series BMW or Audi A3, which turned out to be a lie. The only options available were an MPV, a Ford Mondeo or a Golf Diesel. Sadly, I had no other option - that day was my only window of opportunity.

So there I am, early November, light snow falling around, smoking in the NĂĽrburgring's pits/parking lot, leaning on the bonnet of a MkIV Golf. Just wasting time waiting until the guy in the Ferrari, the guy in the M3, the one in the Caterham and even the one in an old, rickety alfa pass the gate, since I don't want to be an obstacle (or worse yet, damage a 360!). After the track is somewhat clear, I make my run.

It starts decently enough, with what I considered a reasonably decent performance for a first day at the track with slight snow, driving a Diesel.

Then came a chicane. I'm not sure which one, to be honest. In all my experience and wisdom (read: boneheadedly), I decided to clip a bit through the red-and-white rumblers on the side of the track - hey, isn't that what they're there for?

Well, the answer is, no, at least not in that corner. Damned things must be almost a foot high. All I felt was a shock, almost as if I had run over some animal, and suddenly the horizon wasn't, well, quite horizontal.

I had gotten a Golf Diesel on Two Wheels. At speed. On the NĂĽrburgring. While it was snowing. Not very high, mind you, but only half the tires were touching pavement for a small while.

I'm not sure what happened. I jerked the wheel. I prayed to any and all deities that might have been hovering over western Germany. I fell back on four wheels and lost traction on the second turn of the chicane. I magically kept the car in the track and the crap in my bowels. I finished the lap cautiously. I let the car cool in the parking lot before I moved it again. I got a coffee. I chainsmoked more than at any other time of my life.

Then I got in the car, Looked at the view, and went back to the track. What can I say? I'm an idiot.

But you're our kind of idiot.