Let me start off by saying fuck the Ferrari 250 GTO.

Fuck its multimillion dollar pricetag. Fuck the old backwards-looking farts who drool over these things. Fuck them and their nostalgia for the years when this not-at-all groundbreaking car won some races.


The only reason people give a crap about this car is because it has a prancing horse on the front and because it won its races in the early '60s, before the World Got Scary and when the radio played the songs you still listen to on your Golden Oldies station that plays Van Halen now what's going on with that?

The world shoots too many eyeballs on this car, all fueled by the millions and millions of pounds and euros that speculators light on fire at its altar.

But hey, it's still a gorgeous, front-engined V12 racecar, one of the very last of its breed.

And here it is still being driven, not locked away in a climate-controlled prison cell garage, driven by the attentive son of Phil Hill, the American F1 world champion who raced this painting on wheels.


Stare at its curves and be welcomed back to a time when the world was still simple and all the colonies hadn't revolted yet and Watergate hadn't happened and nobody was off at Vietnam and we could beat the Ruskies and everything was technicolor wonderful. Let that all fall into the V12 wail and understand why people shell out fortunes to 'own' this disposable, obsolete machine.

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