Thankfully it's not a Cayenne.

We're making pizza so we went to the grocery store in Tweed… I'd just taken a shower so my hair was wet so I just pulled it back, meaning that my tattoo and ears were exposed (ie. the “that dude's not from around here” look).

Anyway, when we got there after a few minutes I heard someone chanting “Porsche Carrera” over and over and over, and then I saw it was one of the stock boys chanting it as he pushed a giant cart of bread through the grocery. After a little while he came up to us and asked if it was ours — he was very thrilled to find out it was and had a million questions.

“Is it a kit car?”
“Really? The guys in the back said it was a kit.”
“Does it have six gears?”
“That's awesome! How fast does it go?”

We told him it had no problem doing at least 260 (kph) and he spent the next ten minutes or so — until we left — running around the grocery yelling “two hundred and sixty!” over and over and over.

On the way out there was a real blubbery beast of a slag backing out of the lot — one of these truly morbid troll-women with skin made of lard that's been sitting out in the sun for a few weeks, an old mop with spilled spagetti sauce in it for hair, and nothing but 450 pounds of rat shit for guts — anyway, her kids, less visually revolting but likely equally ignorant were pasted against the window eyeing the Porsche.

When they saw me their attention shifted from the car to me. They were excited still, so they didn't automatically shift to “disgusted mode” and looked at me with the same generally amazed faces they'd reserved for the car. They were doubly amazed I think to see that Rachel and I were who the Porsche belonged to. As a result, they will forever think more highly of modified people, and their mother has more reason to hate people driving Porsches I suppose.

Wow Shannon, that's really annoying! What is it, 1997 on Geocities? Retroweb is NOT cool!

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