I found this on another forum and thought to share it here. It's very enterntaining IMO:
The Saga of Hondtard
My weekend cruiser is a primered (but crisp) '63 Tempest with a traditional Pontiac 467 V8 under the hood (4.151" + .030" bore & 4.21" + .040" stroke = 467ci = 7.7L for you metric people). Rebuilt M20 4 speed and 12 bolt eaton posi w/ 3.90 gears. Custom plates "WARPATH". I built the mill while in the service and found the Tempest at an estate sale. Apparently it was a restoration that some elderly man abandoned ten years ago and just let sit in his shop til he passed away. Because all real Pontiac V8s are externally so similar the inevitable swap was sinfully easy. Out came the stock 326, in went the 467.
The neighbor next door's kid turned 17, and the welp's mother gives him her '93 Honda Civic hatchback.
Say it out loud now with me. Honda civic.
"Perfect for a new driver, economical, easy to maintain and dependable. A terrific first car for junior." I thought to myself.
The first week was fine, he bought spinning hubcaps and a set of AZNdragon seat covers for it. That should have been it.
The week after that, I walk out to get the paper and almost called the cops. I thought I had seen a UFO. As it approached I could see it was a CIVIC with four different colors of neon underneath it. I almost had a brain aneurism looking at this thing. Even the shifter knob was blinking orange!
Then about 48 hours later, I'm laying in bed, about to doze off to sleep when I hear BZZZZZZ-owww. BZZZZ-owww over and over next door.
"This is an odd time for Mr. Richardson to be jacking around with his chainsaw." I growled out loud. After 45 minutes of this irritating buzzing, I decided to saunter over and ask the neighbor to play with his chainsaw in the morning.
I find the junior revving his engine up and down. Four more white suburban gangsta kids were standing around "tuning" his new exhaust which consisted of a small header and dual outlet 5" fart bucket spray painted silver and the words "TYPE-R" stenciled on it. I told him to please cut the racket with the car so I could sleep.
The following week he asks if he can borrow a screwdriver and a hammer. Hes installing his new type r rear spoiler. He was pretty damn proud of it having paid almost 600 dollars for the thing. I asked him where he was going to put it, since his Civic is a hatchback.
"The roof, dawg" is what he told me.
This spoiler looks like an aluminum picnic table that you would see in a public park, except for lots of rivets in it and the words Type R plastered all over it. I almost stopped him, but I wanted to see how retarded it would be. I gleefully helped him install it. Yup, a classic. He went on to explain to me that he needed it for all of the downforce he needed to maintain traction at supersonic speeds.
2 weeks later he is asking to borrow my cordless drill. He just bought a body kit, yo, and heeds to be down fo' shizzle wit da tool dawg to istall it, no wut hes sane, dawg?
So he drills all of the holes, double sided tape and screws this mofo to his car, and it REALLY is beginning to look like a circus car.
Problem: The body kit is white. The car is green. It looks like burrito vomit and the car is a full 4 inches wider, and 2 inches lower than it was before. He can't get the doors to open or close properly, "cuz the body kit yo" is catching the door jam. Always the helpful one, I lend him my grinder. That was the best, watching this tard grind on his new $1200 yo yo word up body kit. Word. It was the flyest, dawg.
Now, he decides he wants to "Lower the ride, dog." I wouldnt let him use my tools, as I was afraid this assclown would maim himself with what he wanted to do next. He would cut the coils. Dangerous. Unsafe. Stupid.
Remarkably he succeeded in cutting the coils, but now his new body kit dawg was dragging on the ground. And to top it all off the car was bouncing up and down like a carnival ride, effectively ending his neon glory.
Now hondtard wants a "syssem, yo." Oh yeah. He pieced together 6 different trashed car stereos, one home streo, and a kragen auto parts special base speaker, and somehow wired the neon lights (whats left of them) to blink with the beat of the music. Except you cant hear the music. You can only hear the bass and it rattles his rooftop spoiler and license plate frame.
Now it is REALLY looking AND SOUNDING like a clown car. Okay. Now for hondtards carbon fiber paint job. He puts a hood scoop from an early '60s Mustang on it, and its EMORMOUS. It somewhat balanced out the retardeness of the rear spoiler/picnic table.
Then out comes the spray cans. All 18 of them. First, he pulled off his spinning hubcaps, and painted the wheels BLACK. Flat black.
Then he painted the body kit dawg bright neon yellow.
The rest of the car was painted bright red (screams McDonald's) with a fist turning into a dragon or some sh!t airbrushed on the doors.
Having a rep as a car guy, junior comes over with a copy of "honda tuner" mag, filled with equally retarded looking cars.
He asks me: "Yo dawg, i wanna make dis here b18 goes fast. I was thinkin of an acura V-tec swap or some NOSS"
I asked "What exactly do you intend to do with this car? Will you be entering it in the most homo-erotic car contest or what?"
He says: "Naaw, cracka. That shiz is be is funny, but I is for reals, for reals. I need to be running 12s and making 350 horsepower"
Irritated I asked: Why not save your allowance and buy a car that already makes power instead of wasting money on a 90 hp grocery getter?
"Dont be a foo, yo. Everybody knows dat ode skoo shizit cant hang" he tells me.
Now I'm pissed. Insulted. I said: Lookit here, junior, I'll pull my Tempest out of this garage and make your after school project look like it is going backwards. No naws, no turbo, no stickers and no body kit is gonna help you beat the "ODE SKOO" cars, DAWG. And the same goes for any of your other candyland friends. I'll have you and your homies piss-soaking your tampones with horror before I even hit second gear. You have 6g worth of sh!t bolted onto a $2,000 car that was perfectly good when you got it, and now it looks, sounds and drives like ass. Get the f*ck out of my garage."
Despite welling tears he left with a solid "F*ck you dawg, eye'l beat your old man car with a 150 shot" and he left, trying to pull up his drawers and give me the finger at the same time.
I am a responsible adult. I don't condonne street racing. However, when faced with a direct insult, challenge, and a f*ck you, any man tends to be defensive enough to take a few risks, as exilerating as they may be. Many will argue that annihilating a civic is a waste of premium gasoline to which I entirely agree. Understand that it was junior's ego that I aimed to crush. He needed to learn his proper place on the automotive food chain.
Beautiful sunny day. First day I've had it out since fall. I check the fluids and tire psi. I start the engine. I anticipate a crisp, lively jaunt at mind-bending speeds up the interstate. I rev the engine, I sip my coffee.
Hondtard heard the rumble, so he and 2 of his friends do the same in their driveway. One is a late model Integra in the early stages of molestation, and the other one is junior's Civic. It sounds like a bumble-bee race at the Richardson's house. I crank my engine up to a mere 2,500 RPM and drown them out with satisfaction.
I climb in my car, check the guages, and idle out into the road.
I look in my rearview, and I'm being followed by 2 bouncing, brightly colored clown cars with backward hats pointing in my direction.
I ignore them. Not worth my trouble. I'm a grown up.
Acuretard and hondtard pass me when I hit hwy 98 on the left and the right.
Gone. Good. I am halfway to Brooks when they blast out of the on ramp and attempt to box me in. Acuratard is revving his engine and pointing forward, hondtard is slowing me down in front of me.
Thats it. I've had enough.
I stuffed the M20 down into third gear, opened all 467 cubes wide open, almost rear-ended hondtard and swerved directly at acuratard.
I broke the rear tires loose at 75 mph, & acuratard was busy downshifting in a futile attempt to gain enough speed up to catch me.
I dusted those meat smokers so bad they simply vanished. I got off on the Brooks exit and waited for them on the on ramp. Some of their own game. Right back atcha homie.
I let them see me. Hammering the throttle I smoked the Dunlops violently out of the ramp so that they would know I was pissed and coming for them.
I ignored hondtard and brought it down right on the acura's bumper. I got within an inch of this terrified punks ass and popped on the high beams and gunned the motor. I mashed the gas in third and was threatening to bump him. 90, 100, 110....
Mwa ha ha ha ha!!!! He hadn't a prayer of getting away from me. He waved for me to pass. Hondtard was WAAAAY in the back (it was his only defense). Acuratard was scared, and beaten and he knew it. I pulled alongside.
I smuggly glanced over. He backed way off. I dumped it, quickly reaching 140 mph hell-bent for the horizon. Acuratard and hondtard soon faded from the rearview.
I headed home, elated by having just figuratively bi+ch-slapped two impertinent ricers into submission. Later that evening, as I told my fiancee this story ("Youre a juvenile ass hole, you could have gotten into a wreck and youre going to piss off the neighbors"
I heard two yard tools idle up to my house.
A knock on the door. I answer it, ready to get serious about this if I have to.
They want to see my car now. "Do you have nos? Is it a hemi?"
Fa gs. Get lost.
Clown car is still on the road, but now homie g wants to learn all about the "ode skoo".
You simply have to see this car to believe it. In honor of "hondtard" Richardson, class of 2006, I dedicate this to you.