The 1957 Cadillac Eldorado Brougham was the perfect show-off of death machines. It consisted of nearly three tons of steel stamped into a massively mawed, high-tailed beast, lined with enough chrome to build a Terminator and still have parts left over-most of it in long, sharp strips that peeled off on impactand became lethal scythesto flay away pedestrian flesh. Under the four headlights, it sported two chrome bumper bullets that looked like unexploded torpedoes or triple-G-cup Madonna death boobs. It had a noncollapsable steering column that would impale the driver upon any serious impact, electric windows that could pinch off a kid's head, no seat belts, and a 325 horsepower V8 with such appallingly bad fuel efficiency that you could hear it trying to slurp liquefied dinosaurs out of the ground when it passed. It had a top speed of a hundred and ten miles per hour, mushy, bargelike suspension that could in no way stabilize the car at that speed, and undersized power brakes that wouldn't stop it either. The fins jutting from the back were so high and sharp that the car was a lethal threat to pedestrians even when parked, and the whole thing sat o tall, whitewall tires that looked, and generally handled, like oversized powdered doughnuts. Detroit couldn't have acheived more deadly finned ostentatia if they'd covered a killer whale in rhinestones. It was a masterpiece.



The preceeding was a quote from Christopher Moore's A Dirty Job.
This book is one of the funniest I have ever read. Go out and find it.