Driving is for getting from one place to another. If you think about it rationally, that’s the whole idea of transportation. Nevertheless, however unlikely it may seem, only women can grasp that simple notion that cars are for transporting. They drive within speed limit. They give way. They don’t honk rudely and never flash their middle fingers. If they ever change lane without signaling, it’s not a fault — they are simply assuming all drivers are driving at the same speed. Of course, they would be wrong. There are men.
To men, driving is for enjoyment. The latest tagline “Joy is BMW” certainly didn’t come from a woman. It’s an enjoyment derived from burning fossil fuel, polluting the atmosphere and earth-shattering engine noise. It’s enjoyment weaving in and out of traffic, passing cars after cars, and scaring the living daylight out of other road users, especially female. In fact, men enjoy driving so much, they build circuits so that they can drive round and round on it forever, never getting anywhere at all.
And men accuse women of being irrational. Men are just as irrational. It’s just that we are systematically irrational. We systematically form racing teams and F1, systematically build cars that will never get used on roads, systematically burn billions of dollars just to drive on a 3km circuit, round and round, forever. That’s how much we enjoy driving. Not to mention the thousands of spectators and the millions of TV viewers whose eyes are all fixated on the cars going in circle.
Evidently, it’s not just driving we are talking about here. It’s also about racing. About how men risks their lives (literally) driving at superhuman speed on tracks trying to get 0.01 second ahead of each other. — What’s the whole purpose of it?
Men are idiots beyond repair.
If the “transporters” in Star Trek are ever to be invented, they will be invented by women scientists. Of course, men would’ve come up with the method first, but will evidently abandon it and bury it, shuddering at the unbearable thoughts of the demise of wheeled vehicles. Men would rather drive light-years to the Klingon planet. Am I exaggerating? The top show in the UK was TopGear. Its rating even surpassed news programs. There were times men care more about cars than riots, wars, tornadoes and earthquakes.
That’s why women can never understand men. Because we are idiots. You can never figure out how an idiot thinks or how he would react if you are a regular, intelligent human being, ie. woman. Idiots don’t even understand themselves. For example, I just came back from go-karting, but I am wondering why I went in the first place, and why I kinda like it now, though I used to hate it.
You see, go-karting is not cheap. You pay about RM35 to cramp yourself into a kart, which is essentially the simplest car with a lawnmower engine, 4 wheels and a seat that’s always a size smaller than your rear end. With the RM35, you’re allowed to drive around the circuit for 10 minutes under the scorching sun. There is no suspension, no insulation, no power steering. All vibration from the road gets fed onto your hands and body directly, and you will develop temporary Parkinson syndrome afterwards. Hence, 10 minutes is about the right duration, because otherwise the syndrome will be permanent.
There is no seatbelt. The only thing that stop you from flying out of the seat is just the seat itself that snugly fits your buttock — which, in this case, you hope is big enough to stuck because you will be reaching 80km/h with little other protection. Moreover, I have always doubted the wisdom of placing the fuel tank visibly in between the legs. A tank of highly flammable liquid, under high temperature, just inches away from my crotch. Were the engineers who made this thinking with their balls, or without?
The exhaust is located right behind the seat. Once, I accidentally touched it and burned my arm as I struggled to stand up. That’s when I thought karting was too dangerous for my taste. But I was also traumatized by another incident.
When I just started out karting, There was once I went with Neil, who had been an experienced driver. He overtook me rather easily. Then he pulled aside and waved me pass. I charged with all my might, but right after the immediate corner, Neil passed me. Again, he slowed down and waved me pass. I tried harder, but Neil overtook me the third time. That’s when I determined I had absolutely zero talent in karting. Coupled with the burn injury I had, I decided never to come back.
But I went back anyway. I don’t know why exactly. Maybe because a few friends couldn’t believe me that I sucked that bad, so I had to prove it. On the track, Zoggee lapped me. And I couldn’t recall how many times Damien had waved me pass. Nevertheless, Wei Li, who had run several hundred laps on the course, was kind enough to guide me through the racing lines. At the end of the day, I found myself slightly faster, maybe by half a second or one. The amount of satisfaction generated from that second made me feel as if the scorching sun, sweaty clothes and aching muscles were all worth it. And I actually had the crazy thought of coming back again to practice more.
I can’t fight my genes. I’m a man. I am an idiot. Who wants to join me for the next karting session?