Left the house to get some coffee and some other **** this morning, and no sooner had I left the driveway than I was accosted by this fart-exhaust, body kit, super-winged monument of pure plastic performance. It appeared to have been an early 90s Civic hatch before someone attached 500 lbs of plastic skirts and **** to it. The kid at the wheel definately was the Real Slim Shady, bad bleach job and backwards visor, he was fo' real str8 thuggin' and all that good ****. So I look over at this spankster and nod forward in classic " Ok *****, lets run" style. I can hear this choad revving his obnoxious weedwacker up to what sounded like the very limit, then the light turns green. I get a pretty solid launch, leaving Slim and his Civic behind from the start. By the time I hit the next light 5 blocks down, Civic Boy was at least 8 car-lengths back. He pulled up next to me again but refused to even look over, he wanted no more, he had been beaten so badly. It was then that I realized that I hadn't even worn running shoes. I had smoked that geek in my work boots. Laughing to myself, I continued my walk down to the store in peace.