Hot Dogs and Fast Cars

You ever drive while doing too many things? Dangerous as hell, I know. But everybody does it, right? So I'm driving my friend Ivan's new 911, which is a tremendously sweet ride. Nothing like it except for maybe something ridiculously exotic like a Ferrari. Only problem is that the horsepower and engineering were totally wasted because of everyone in Ithaca driving their Subarus, Vulva's and Civic Hybrids at about 22.7 miles per hour. What's worse is that they slow down at green lights, ride their brakes down hills, and require a written invitation and a fucking traffic cop to actually make a left turn. But no worries, because Ivan-one-brow, my insanely rich banker friend (who can hardly spell, write a single convincing sentence, or juggle an idea for more than a t.v. commercial break), loaded up on too many gin and tonics and was thereby forced to let me get behind the wheel of the impeccable $80,000 machine. Who pays 80 g's for a car? Assholes like Ivan, that's who. Don't get me wrong - he's a hell of a nice guy: tells a good joke, is pretty generous with his money, and he can open beers with his teeth at parties. But how in the hell did he get to be vice president of his bank when the last book he read was "Lord of Flies" in the tenth grade? Anyway, Ivan was giving me hell about driving his fabulous car while drinking a cherry slush puppy and eating a hot dog (I had just learned that on Friday nights Felicia's Atomic Lounge serves hot dogs boiled in beer and topped with homemade ketchup - I took three to go after last call). 

"You're going to get in an accident, you fat sonofabitch. Hey! You just dripped ketchup on the leather, mutherfucker!" 

I stuffed the entire hot dog in my mouth in defiance and downshifted on a steep curved grade. The engine roared in a perfection of mechanical synchronicity. The low profile Pirelli tires gripped and grabbed at the pavement. And then BAM! We hit something big. Like a person or a large animal or something. I saw tan flanks and wild eyes. A horse? Shit, I didn't know. "Aaahhh!" screamed Ivan. "Fuck!" I shouted as the car fishtailed and I fought hard to keep it on the road, which was no small feat, because the road was slick with icy rain and still curving sharply downhill. I managed not to wreck us and sighed with relief, only Ivan was hysterical: 

"Ahhh! Frank, I'm bleeding! Something's wrong, Frank. I think I'm hurt badly. Look at all this blood..." 

I skidded to a stop. I looked in horror to see the front of Ivan's starched white oxford absolutely soaked in red cherry-flavored slush. 

"Man, that shirt is ruined." I said. 

"Frank, I'm dying! I feel so cold. You've got to help me, man." His eyes were wide with fear.  

"That's because you're covered in cherry slush, dipshit." 

We began laughing until I drove away and Ivan slowly began to put it all together: that we had hit a massive buck, splattered cherry slush, confused it with blood, and ultimately, dented the hood of his beloved Porsche.  Ivan actually suggested that I pay for the damages! I suggested that he kiss my ass, and now I'm no longer allowed to drive his car. BFD, right?