www.mattbrozovich.com

I Dominate Human Birth Canals

noreply@blogger.com (Broz) — Tue, 02 Sep 2008 16:49:00 +0000

About a month and half ago, the wife decided to get off birth control to, "See what happens?" Three weeks later, the wife excitedly woke me up by waving a positive pregnancy test in my face. My immediate response was, "Did you just pee on that?" I spent the rest of the day like I think most men do upon finding out their woman is with child; praising my sperm and a youth spent rubbering up and then planning all the chores my child will perform once it is potty-trained. For the past few weeks I have been running the gamut of emotions; happiness, excitement and the crippling fear that I will soon be responsible for another human life. Later today we have our first doctor's appointment where a man twice my age will familiarize himself with my wife's lady parts while I watch helplessly. Operation Baby Thunder and nine months of a personal designated driver has officially begun!

The Domestication Of Broz

noreply@blogger.com (Broz) — Thu, 28 Aug 2008 17:50:00 +0000

Before my wife, the only time I lit candles was when I was sitting closest to the cake at a birthday party. She exposed me to a world of scented lotions, methods for doing laundry that did not include sorting clothing into two piles; "whites" and "everything else" and of course, candles. Now I have candles everywhere. I never knew one needed scented candles for bathrooms, offices, living rooms, family rooms, spare bedrooms and laundry rooms. Every odor issue in our house is solved by lighting a candle. "God you stink, Matty. We should light a candle!" Maybe I could take a shower? My wife has corrupted me. I now find myself debating the aromatic pleasures in the Yankee Candle area at Bed, Bath & Beyond. Do I want Pumpkin Pie or Clean Cotton? Cucumber Melon or Beach Walk? Finally, there is a candle company that appeals to my male sensibilities; Hot Wicks. They carry scents that smell of urinal cakes, campfires and strippers. Hot Wicks describes the stripper scent as, "the perfume counter at your local department store times a thousand ... then add some glitter." I think a more accurate description is "bitter desperation mixed with the hint of ass sweat, stale bourbon and broken dreams."

The Weekend That Was

noreply@blogger.com (Broz) — Mon, 25 Aug 2008 05:11:00 +0000

Friday. The wife and I attend the 2008 Punk Rocks show at Red Rocks. The band lineup includes NOFX, Mighty Mighty Bosstones, Bouncing Souls, Street Dogs and young Denver skate punks Frontside Five (the Circle Jerks are a no-show). I soon recognize how old I am when I breeze through beer lines in mere minutes. I soon learn that new punk kids like smoking weed way more than old punk kids. NOFX, Mighty Mighty Bosstones and Bouncing Souls are still awesome. The Street Dogs are the opposites of awesome due to an hour and a half set and a fifteen minute dissertation on who the Ramones are and why they are so important to punk music. The only way to make their set less cliche would have be for the lead singer to not remove his shirt before his Ramones tribute song only to reveal a strategically planned Ramones shirt underneath. I conclude that six hour concerts and $7 beers are not nearly as fun in my thirties as they were in my twenties.

Saturday. Enter the annual neighborhood pool luau. We represent a respectable drinking crew and my next door neighbor's classic rock cover band melts faces. Our HOA is awesome because they allow (tolerate) my next door neighbor to wheel an ice-cold keg over to the pool to serve free beer. I soon realize that inflatable monkeys cannot sustain the belly-flop weight of a grown man from a diving board. Post-luau we torch a fire in the backyard pit and the wife provides ingredients for 'smores. Three people fall asleep in their chairs. I conclude that staying up late and drinking until intoxication two nights in a row is not nearly as fun in my thirties as it was in my twenties.

Sunday. My annual fantasy football draft goes down in the living room. Being as this is the fifteenth year of my league's existence and the same team owners have been in said league for the past six years, I expect the draft to take no more than two hours. Four hours and eight cases of beer later, the draft concludes after much humor, animosity and stupidity (this sums up my fantasy football league perfectly: upon the draft's conclusion one team owner loudly proclaimed, "I have to get going. I am late for marriage counseling.") Steak, potatoes and a gigantic apple pie from Costco are then decimated in less than twenty minutes. I conclude that sports gambling and NFL football viewing are not nearly as fun in my thirties as they were in my twenties.

Hippy On Fire

noreply@blogger.com (Broz) — Fri, 15 Aug 2008 13:02:00 +0000

Kaye: Where are you working from today?
Me: A coffee shop in Boulder. I am meeting with a vendor this morning and he chose this joint.
Kaye: Nice.
Me: I cannot wait to be an old man at a coffee shop. These codgers are sitting next to me
and have been talking about the weather for the past hour.
Kaye: With their newspapers and their sweater vests?
Me: Well it is Boulder, so gray beards, flannel shirts...
Kaye: ...and some LL Bean khaki pants?
Me: Right. And instead of a regular newspaper they are reading an alternative paper. Something that bashes Republicans and the "establishment."
Kaye: God. Old Boulder dudes.
Me: They are not even cool old dudes wearing a Fedora, walking all slow and talking about losing their buddies during the WW-deuce.
Kaye: Ha! They are just old Hippies. The worst kind of Hippy.
Me: Yes. Because they are old enough to know that their peace-loving, cheeba-smoking rhetoric does not work anymore.
Kaye: Totally. You know what looks good on a Hippy?
Me: Blood?
Kaye: No. Fire.
Me: Even better.

More 2008 Summer Olympics Diarrhea

noreply@blogger.com (Broz) — Fri, 15 Aug 2008 05:25:00 +0000

I have been consumed with Olympics viewing all week and thereby disturbing my normal sleep and freelance design routines to watch riveting "sports" such as synchronized diving. The thing I did know about synchronized diving is that synchronized showering and synchronized hot-tubbing are a major part of the "sport." The first week of the 2008 Beijing Olympics has shown the world that at least one female Chinese gymnast is underage, sportsmanship is not necessarily alive and well in Olympiad and Michael Phelps is kind of good. Maybe Michael Phelps can teach Carmelo Anthony work ethic before the next summer games so Melo shows up ready to compete on the world stage instead of spending his entire first game on the bench after going 0 for 3 from the field.

2008 Summer Olympics Diarrhea

noreply@blogger.com (Broz) — Wed, 06 Aug 2008 05:33:00 +0000

I love me some Olympics. I love the history, the majesty, the competition, the pseudo-sport "athletes" doing lesbian modeling shoots, the underage Chinese gymnasts and the ridiculously shredded Dara Torres looking like she could punch through the ass of a thoroughbred race horse. I long for this Friday's opening ceremony in Beijing where anti-rain rockets will be fired into the atmosphere, crippling pollution will destroy the lungs of the most well-conditioned athletes and the Chinese government will slaughter kittens in the streets. I look forward to the 29th Games of Olympiad to watch the best of the world compete on a grand stage and ogle hot female Olympians. I am especially anticipating rooting for my wife's childhood friend and one of Arvada, Colorado's native sons Casey Malone, who will be representing the United States in discus for his second appearance in Olympic competition (and just in case he forgot, I wish to echo what I told him at his send-off picnic: "If you do not come home with a medal, Malone, do not come home" which loosely translates in Brozovich to, "You show them, Malone. You show the world.") Let the Women's Beach Volleyball, and the games, begin.

Thug Life

noreply@blogger.com (Broz) — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 19:55:00 +0000

My sister has been working as a county social worker for the past decade. Yesterday she was at the jail administering a training class for fellow county employees. While walking through the intake area, a young woman called out to her from the holding cell. The young woman asked my sister her name, where she went to high school and if I was her brother. After answering yes to all the young woman's queries, she blurts out, "Oh my god! I used to date your brother! Tell him I said hello!" Hello back at you, crazy drugged-up bitch I used to date in high school. Be sure to tell your Mom that she still owes me gas money for driving you to softball practice during the summer of 1994.

Link Goodness

noreply@blogger.com (Broz) — Tue, 29 Jul 2008 22:15:00 +0000

A 5.4 magnitude earthquake hit Los Angeles earlier today and yielded no deaths with minor damage. Where are those celebrity upskirts when you need them most?
Some Island of Dr.Moreau shit washed ashore in Montauk, Long Island. Crazy genetic mutant that escaped from Plum Island or a dried up sea turtle missing its shell? You decide.
Mr.Belding cuts a rug with some hot chicks in Vegas.

Estelle Getty Sleeping With Yaweh

noreply@blogger.com (Broz) — Wed, 23 Jul 2008 15:57:00 +0000

As a youngster I would go for dinner at my grandparents house at least once a week. My Italian grandmother was an amazing cook and made some of the most glorious feasts (her lentil soup and pot roast can never be duplicated). After dinner we would retire to the family room to watch some Golden Girls. I recall my grandmother laughing hysterically at Sophia on a regular basis. Maybe it was because they had similar personalties. Or that they were both Italian. Or they were both five feet tall, one hundred pounds and intimidating as hell. Whatever it was, Estelle Getty will always hold a special place in my heart for being able to continually crack my grandmother's iron resolve.

Link Goodness

noreply@blogger.com (Broz) — Wed, 16 Jul 2008 11:18:00 +0000

For those with an aversion to evacuating their bowels in the in the woods, I present you the shit box.
I like it when my pay-per-view smut is uncomplicated. This digital cable menu reminds me of my trip to Vegas when Wil and EZ were going through the Spank Vision listings. We stopped giggling like middle school girls huffing ether when we landed the she-male feature With or Without.
It has to be tough living in Alex P. Keaton's shadow and all, but damn Andy, settle the fuck down. I long for the day when my friend working in the Boulder County DOC splits Andy Keaton's skull with a nightstick for getting "mouthy" in lock up.

The Women Of Ubiquity

noreply@blogger.com (Broz) — Tue, 15 Jul 2008 06:09:00 +0000

The Women of Starbucks I supported because we all have that barista in our lives that make our mornings bearable with a cute smile and some fantastic breasts. The Women of Enron I rallied behind because Enron screwed a lot of its employees out of their retirement savings and, hey; nude business chicks! The Women of Home Depot I half-heartedly accepted as I once saw a semi-attractive female working in the lumber department at my neighborhood store and I may have been interested in seeing her naked if liquored up properly and nothing good was on television. The Women of Olive Garden I cannot and will not get behind due to the fact I have never seen an attractive female employee in my limited experience with the chain. An overweight, single mother with bad hair and a marinara-stained shirt on the other hand...

Pussy That Kills Together Stays Together

noreply@blogger.com (Broz) — Tue, 08 Jul 2008 23:32:00 +0000

The pussy collective has developed into two well-honed killing machines. In the past three weeks I have disposed of three birds which has brought the kitty's confirmed kill tally to seven and a half (I received credit for two assists on the birds I had to close out with the back end of a shovel). Our cats have now refocused their murderous rampage on newer victims; bunnies. The past two evenings, the pussy collective has brought a bunny to the back door squirming in each one of their mouths. Have you ever heard a cute and timid bunny rabbit scream in agony? Much like the Madonna song La Isla Bonita, it is something you can never un-hear. The pussy collective has established their dominance in the wilds of our suburban neighborhood via the Way of Chuck Darwin. I will keep disposing of bodies, my sweet kittens, as long as you keep those rabbits from grazing on the freshly-seeded patch of lawn in the corner of the yard.

An Open Letter To My Wife

noreply@blogger.com (Broz) — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 20:04:00 +0000

Two years ago today you foolishly took my hand in marriage. During that time, I have been unemployed twice (1, 2), made the neighbors suspect I was beating you when yelling "You dirty bitch!" at the computer while designing a website, bulged a disc, come home late countless nights from post-hockey drinking benders, continued my subscription to numerous men's smut magazines, remained dutifully absent from all Monday night plans during the fall/winter to drink with my Fantasy Football buddies, run down a couch on the highway and have never let you hold the television remote in my presence. In short, you are still the amazing, accepting and funny person that I fell in love with. I appreciate you more with each passing day and I love you just like Extreme; More Than Words. Happy second anniversary, honey. It is the cotton anniversary so let us pick up some righteous sheets that make it feel as if we were sleeping atop a marshmallow cloud. Or we can save our money and just get a giant box of maxi pads. Those commercials make them look like giant stingrays swimming. Just saying.

Reality Killed The Video Star

noreply@blogger.com (Broz) — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 15:47:00 +0000

It is videos such as these that make me long for a time when MTV actually played music videos. A time when the Participation Ribbon Generation was not responsible for subjugating creative video ingenuity to an ancillary channel on digital cable in lieu of reality programming that long ago withered and died on the vine (please give me yet another reality show about former reality stars competing in the ultimate reality competition in order to win fabulous prizes that said former reality stars do not deserve). A time when Downtown Julie Brown and Kari Wuhrer filled my adolescent brain with impure desires. A time when one could easily cross the cultural void by watching Yo! MTV Raps and the Headbangers Ball in the same sitting. MTV sold out long ago and nothing short of a topless Audrina Partridge doing the Ed Lover Dance atop Spencer Pratt's dead body will make me cool with it.

Link Goodness

noreply@blogger.com (Broz) — Fri, 27 Jun 2008 14:37:00 +0000

Hannah Montana penis candy.
"Raised to be tough" guy also not raised to lose drinking contests.
Some scientists are claiming that for the first time in human history, the North Pole will be free of ice of this summer. If we can retroactively measure the North Pole ice pack back through Prehistory, then we should be able to stop Tila Tequila.

Instant Messaging From The Edge

noreply@blogger.com (Broz) — Tue, 17 Jun 2008 16:25:00 +0000

Me: How is Dubai, my man?
Nick: It is a foreign country with Russian hookers and pirate DVD salesmen. How is Denver?
Me: About the same.
Nick: Ha!

Barbecue For Jesus

noreply@blogger.com (Broz) — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 23:01:00 +0000

DJ: Jesus in French fry format.
Me: The Son of God looks delicious!
DJ: Willy Porter does a song called "Jesus on the Grill" but he is talking about the grill of a truck...
Me: ...not a grill with a rack of ribs?
DJ: Right.
Me: Brings a whole new meaning to transubstantiation. I took a lot of communion as a young indoctrinated Catholic and if Jesus tasted like a brisket and French fries? I might not have strayed so far from the church.
DJ: "I am hungry! When is church?"
Me: Totally.
DJ: You could tell how good the barbecue was at a church by the size of the congregation.
Me: We could start the Church of the Holy Barbecue.
DJ: Or at the very least a restaurant called A Religious Experience.
Me: Where all the wait staff is dressed like Jesus during the crucifixion and instead of blood they are slathered in...
DJ: ...barbecue sauce?
Me: Yes! They slap down a pork sandwich in front of you and say, "The swine of Christ."
DJ: Ha!
Me: Oh man. I just had a really fucked up thought. Have a guy dressed up as Abraham, give him a sacrificial knife and have him bring a newborn baby out to a table. Just when he gets ready to slaughter the baby have the Mexican kitchen manager yell from the back of the restaurant (like the voice of God), "No Mas!" Then Abraham picks up the baby all nurturing and loving and says to the patrons, "Only kidding! Have some more brisket!"
DJ: Wow. You are right. That was fucked up.

2008 Presidential Race Diarrhea

noreply@blogger.com (Broz) — Thu, 05 Jun 2008 21:08:00 +0000

With Hillary either conceding this weekend or waiting for an Obama assassination attempt, it looks like the impending presidential election will feature John McCain (R) against Barack Obama (D) and some third party hacks that are not relevant because they did not have enough money to run a competitive presidential campaign. As a declared independent, I find myself smack dab in the middle of the two major parties on most of the relevant political issues. I like to pay as little taxes as possible. I support gun ownership. I support re-separating the church from the state. I am fine with legal immigrants speaking Spanish, stealing jobs and paying taxes on their income. I am fine with women having the choice to kill their unborn children. I believe that global warming has little to do with human influence and is just a natural part of Earth's climate cycle. And lastly, I support establishing a democratic regime in Iraq that is friendly to United States economic interests. Blood for oil? Goddamn right. Spill more blood for oil, I say. Oil is freedom. Oil is the American way. It fuels vehicles, planes, truck fleets and riding lawnmowers. It brings food, living supplies, mobility and convenience to my doorstep. Why would I not want to protect that? Fight the good fight, troops. What ever peace mongering hippy yells "No Blood For Oil" at you is probably driving a Subaru Outback (which gets 20 miles to the gallon), shopping at Whole Foods (which gets their inventory transported in by long haul truckers getting 11 miles to the gallon), supports feeding the homeless (yet lives in a community with anti-panhandling laws) and complains about lackluster education (yet home schools their children or sends them to private institutions) should be dutifully ignored. So who do I vote for? An old war dog that wants to get his work down by the early afternoon so he can catch a quick nap before the early bird at the Sizzler? Or a slick, youthful, used car salesman that never really offers me a viable solution to any problem? Mix in everything I just posted with the fact that I have an intense distrust for politicians and government and here I am. Let the games begin!

Lesbians Love Tina Fey

noreply@blogger.com (Broz) — Wed, 04 Jun 2008 17:17:00 +0000

While on a conference call with a client who spent the majority of the time figuring out an easy content management system who dropped the following phrase numerous times, "Okay. Hold on just a second ...5 minutes of silence... Ohhhhhhhhhhh. That is easy!" I was left with time to ponder important Art Director decisions. Decisions like who the hottest bitches of 2008 are. According to Maxim, it is Sports Illustrated Swimsuit cover model Marissa Miller. Well played, Maxim. I do, however, have to take exception with your placement of Britney at 19. Seriously? 19? Did you not look at this before making your list? FHM gave the hot chick medal of honor to Megan Fox. Even though Jake is gay and has no love for her, she is slutty delicious and I look forward to seeing her rack in more overly-hyped, big budgeted, acting-anemic Michael Bay joints. Then there are the lesbians. Apparently they are all about Tina Fey. Look, I get it. She is smart, cute, has that trashy librarian vibe and is funny in 30 Rock. But number 1? You disappoint me, lesbians. Her face scar alone should drop her out of the top ten (strictly from a comparison standpoint). How did she get that thing, anyway? Did a pimp cut her in a fit of rage to teach her to not come home with no money? Lastly, I take extreme exception with Gwen Stefani not being mentioned on any of these lists (and I know from personal experience that the lesbians love Gwen Stefani). Please review this Maxim, FHM and lesbians. That is all.

The Memorial Day Weekend That Was

noreply@blogger.com (Broz) — Tue, 27 May 2008 15:59:00 +0000

Friday. The wife and I attend a homemade rib bonanza at Team Muff's house where we drain shitty Mexican beer and play a rousing game of Trivial Pursuit 90s Edition. Proof that we have all turned into our parents: we began questioning the "correctness" of card answers and commenting on how staying up until 11:30 seemed "late."

Saturday. The wife and I attend a barbecue at DJs which we learn upon walking into his house is actually his birthday party. The wife gets angry at me for not knowing it was his birthday (even though it was on the Evite) and I explain to her that knowing when your guy friends birthday is is totally gay, and if I bought a gift for him we would have to move in together and begin re-decorating his house in the finest tapestries and velvets. I down a homemade chili beer that I regret four hours later, eat some swine and watch some UFC fighting. The wife and I decided to duck out early to get some sleep. When we arrive back at home, Team Hofkamp stops over with a twelve pack of shitty Mexican beer and cigarettes. We hang out in our backyard for an hour until my neighbor invites us over the fence to share in his raging backyard chimenea fire and more shitty Mexican beers and cigarettes. Four hours and eight beers later, we go to bed.

Sunday. The wife and I walk over to the movie multiplex to catch the new Indiana Jones joint. On the way, we stop to view the recently dedicated (but unfinished) Armed Forces Tribute Garden. We grab a burger and some Lumpy Dogs at the Rock Bottom Brewery before watching yet another abortion written by George Lucas. Why do you hate me George Lucas? Aliens and UFOs? Shia LaBeouf as some sort of 1950s hood with a Pompadour and switchblade swinging on vines with monkeys? Next thing you know, you will be telling me that the force is some kind of blood disorder. Oh. Right.

Monday. The wife, myself and 52,000 other people run the Bolder Boulder under the cover of cool mist and fog. My back (almost fully healed from the bulged disc) feels great and I finish in just over an hour. We retire to the homestead for a much needed shower and nap. Later we attend two more Memorial Day barbecues that feel like autumn barbecues due to the inclement weather. I play ping pong. I play foosball. I play 3-square with a beer in my hand. I go to sleep wishing I celebrated three day weekends more often.

Intestinal Parasites And Mental Hospitals

noreply@blogger.com (Broz) — Fri, 16 May 2008 15:41:00 +0000

Gay Joe: I do not know why but I love this.
Me: You are fucked in the head. That is why.
Gay Joe: Well, yeah. So are you, though.
Me: Agreed. It is why we get along.
Gay Joe: It is always nice to know that you may run into someone you know if the State ever forces you into the asylum.
Me: Totally.
Gay Joe: "Matty?! Is that you?!" "Yeah! Wow! Shock therapy?" "Yup!" "Right on!"
Me: [screaming at cops] "FUCKIN' PIGS! GET YOUR FUCKIN' HANDS OFF ME! Oh, hey Joe. How are you man? ... FUCKIN' PIGS!"
Gay Joe: See you in Pueblo someday, Matty.
Me: Right back at you, fruitcake.

Total Beverage Is Total Comedy

noreply@blogger.com (Broz) — Mon, 12 May 2008 02:00:00 +0000

Yesterday I rolled into the local liquor superstore Total Beverage to replenish my depleted garage refrigerator beer stocks and keep the wife happy with a thumb-hole jug of Tanqueray and assorted flavors of tonic water. The TBev is a magical place where the end of the liquor rainbow meets with the weakness of humankind to form an alcohol purgatory where all stripes and strata of society are equal in the eyes of their liquid master. In the checkout line I witnessed the following things:

Two morbidly obese females getting their fake IDs confiscated by the manager.
An Eminem reject attempting to purchase two 40 ounces of Olde English and a carton of GPC Basic cigarettes only to realize that he did not have enough money to purchase said items. He eventually settled for one 40 ounce and one pack of smokes.
A frazzled store clerk having the following sarcastic exchange with an oblivious 8-Mile after he figured out his money situation:
"Why are you guys so busy today?"
"It's Mother's Day Weekend. Mom's like to get down."
"Oh."

Link Goodness

noreply@blogger.com (Broz) — Wed, 07 May 2008 22:43:00 +0000

Photobombers are people who ruin seemingly nice pictures. Here are some of the best Photobombers from Facebook.
Sportsmanship is alive and well in female athletics. If it were dudes playing in that game the scenario would have played out something like this: Guy hits a jack. While rounding first base he blows out his knee. After making fun of the guy for blowing out his knee while rounding the bases on a home run, the opposing team feigns fake concern until trainers haul him off the field whereupon the umpire makes the proper ruling of a two-run single. The opposing team will later tell their grandchildren about some moron that shredded his ACL after going yard in a bourbon-soaked haze forty years later.
Peanut butter and jelly. Milk and cookies. College fraternities and cocaine rings.

Link Goodness

noreply@blogger.com (Broz) — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 23:21:00 +0000

Hulkamania is apparently not about lifting your weights and eating your vitamins but slathering baby oil inappropriately all over your daughter's ass.
Bill Geerhart wrote letters to some of the most infamous figures in the country posing as a ten year-old boy named Billy. Hijinks ensue.
Just when I thought Tyra Banks was in another stratosphere with her insanity she proves that there are others even more crazy than her. The best (saddest) part of the feature? When Summer's dad hands her a bottle of lube for her first day of whoring.

Goodbye, Ghost Of War

noreply@blogger.com (Broz) — Sat, 26 Apr 2008 14:44:00 +0000

After running down an errant couch on I-25, the wife and I decided the time was nigh to purchase a new automobile. We first called our credit union to get pre-approved for a loan and were pleased to learn they offered their customers a free auto broker service. This was exactly what I wanted to hear as car salesman rank in character somewhere between necrophiliacs and Rent-A-Center employees to me. The wife and I were referred to a genial gentleman named Gordon. He called to inform of us of an auto inventory showcase they were having the next day at Bandimere Speedway and invited us to come down and test drive whatever he had. So we did. He introduced himself and then became scarce and the wife and I spent the rest of the morning speeding new and used whips around the hills near Morrison, Colorado. We fell in love with the 2008 Toyota RAV4, both for the V6 engine and the stellar Consumer Reports ratings (thanks EZ). After discussing the features we were looking for in an automobile with Gordon, he informed us that he would scour the Denver metro area for what we wanted. The next day he called to inform us that he procured a 2008 flint-colored, be-moonroofed Toyota RAV4 and that he was driving it up to the crib to let us take it for a spin. We loved the damn thing (of course) and two days and fifteen minutes of paperwork later, the wife and I had us a new ride.

The Ghost of War made her final voyage yesterday (a youngster in Castle Rock bought her for $500) first to Santiagos for a sack of breakfast burritos and than to the office. She was a steady machine that gave me scant trouble in ten years of hard driving (I work a clutch like a Mexican field hand works a burro). Godspeed, Ghost of War. May all your future rides be down the smoothest of couch-free roads.