Yeah, kid, I see you there. Lookin' all cool in your shades. Gunnin' the engine of your shiny new 'Vette. It's so new it still has TEMP plates.
You look over your shoulder and see me in my truck in the lane next to you, set back a few feet.
You gun it again. I'm not taking the bait. Why should I? You're in a 'Vette, I'm in a Ranger. You'll wipe the street with me. You know it. I know it. Why bother?
Now I see and hear you gradually notching up the volume on the Treo that's hardwired to your stereo. If I won't take you up on one challenge, you think I will on the second?
Yeah, you're right. This time I'm biting.
My iPod and I are matching you decibel for decibel, kiddo. And I will win.
I see you looking back at me. You know what's going on. Even you realize that the nouveau crap schlock rock du jour leaking out your meager sound system pales in comparison to the king. My stereo's pumping out Sabbath's "Iron Man." You have chosen... poorly.
You take off from the line as the light turns green. You may think this is your chance to claim victory by showing vehicular dominance. But all I see is someone running away.
I own you.
Bow to the king.