Two words: fucking awesome.

This here is why I do business with a car repair shop owned and operated by two Greek brothers (who look exactly alike, and are both named Nick. True story.).

Two Words: You Lose!

Take me to the creative team behind this masterworks, which is posted in the brothers’ waiting area. Share with me the vision. Are the flames emanating from a secret bunson burner somewhere — or did they spontaneously ignite after the oxygen came in contact with the awesomeness of the GTO? Did the car break the sound barrier upon takeoff, creating a sonic boom and a road of flames in its wake? I want to know.

There’s something about this piece that warms my cockles. It reminds me of when I was a kid, and I’d sneak into untitledbrother’s room while he was at football practice. I’d hopscotch around his Dungeons and Dragons game pieces, dirty tube socks and fossilized Totino’s Party Pizza remnants. A crusty bottle of Oxy would be tipped over on his desk, alongside a copy of “National Geographic,” opened to a photograph of an African woman with pointy boobies and neck rings. I’d walk past his album collection — which included John Lennon, Bob Seger, The Charlie Daniels Band, The Beatles and Pink Floyd. Sometimes I’d listen to his records, making sure to steer clear of “The Wall” and “The White Album” (the artwork gave me nightmares, like any good rock album should).

On the paneled walls of his room were all these pictures of muscle cars — Chargers, Super Bees, Mustangs, Furys — all suspended with yellowing Scotch tape. The photos would be accompanied by headlines like “Out to Launch” and “Pony Up.” I can’t make this shit up, people.

It wasn’t long before he graduated from the pictures to having a motor hanging from the ceiling in our garage and a carburetor on his bedside table. I was careful to get the hell out before he returned, lest he pin me to the floor and fart on my head. My reconnaissance gave me a narrow glimpse into what was cool and important in this world, be it right, wrong or indifferent.

So when I see a poster like this at my mechanic’s, I can’t help but think that when I drop my keys off, he and his brother are scurrying to the back room to eat Doritos and glue together model hot rods until their mother says it’s time for dinner. Tell me — knowing this, how could I take my business anywhere else?

untitledeye: Return of the ghetto blaster.

Ghetto Blaster

Ta damn. I thought the age of the ghetto blaster had come and gone. But no. HEEEEEEEELL to the no.

Now I know that it’s not p.c. to call it a ghetto blaster. But I think this is one bad ass mo fo that has earned the right. Besides, calling it a boom box would be the equivalient of chopping off it grapefruit-sized balls and and pasting a Debbie Gibson sticker to its considerable casing, don’t you think?

As you can see, this specimen is equipped with what appears to be speaker spinners and twin bazooka launchers. I’m sure it is capable of making my old black and yellow Magnavox boom box (circa 1987) spontaneously spew the Hail Mary, or maybe a Martika tune (Toy Soldiers, anyone?). The last thing I’d do is bring a delinquent like this home, for I’m quite confident it would lift its leg and piss all over untitledhusband’s new video iPod.

When I stumbled across this bad boy the other day, I walked by it once, then twice, and then returned to snap a picture. To do so, I had to shoo away a 12 year-old kid who had been pulled it by the machine’s tractor beam. He was clearly creaming his pants, and I could see the numbers rolling around in his head: “If I take on two more paper routes, return all of dad’s PBR cans and steal $25 from grandma’s change jar, I might be able to swing it.”

If you’re interested in making this fine piece of electronics yours, all I can tell you is that I found it at Best Buy. I didn’t catch the model name, but I’m guessing it’s something along the lines of Annihilator or Ass Pounder or Cerebral Hemmorage. Just be careful when giving it a test listen. I’m willing to bet that the woofers alone could loosen your fillings or at the very least, render you temporarily infertile.

untitledeye: Just a good ol’ boy, never meanin’ no harm.

Here in untitledland, we’ve had quite the dumping of snow lately. The other day, untitledhusband was working from home when what does he hear but a high-pitched NEEEEEEEEEE NEEEEEEEEEE NEEEEEEEEEE coming from our normally quiet suburban street. Was his computer fan burning out? Was it a weed eater? A remote-controlled airplane? No. It was our POSTMAN — whippin’ shitties out in the street, just like a 16 year-old boy who’s stole the keys to his dad’s Miata.

Whippin' a Shitty 1

Tire Closeup

Whippin' a Shitty 2

As you can see in these pictures, he had a hard time coaxing his breadbox from house to house. He’d get within a few feet of his target when his rear end would fishtail out of control. Methinks life might easier for these guys if they outfitted the wheels with something other than pencil erasers. Unfortunately, untitledhusband did not get pictures of the other snow-related neighborhood fiasco — the girl next door who was struggling to pull her car into her parents’ driveway. He was too busy drawing all the shades and pretending not to be home. My hero.

untitledeye: Museum of Worthless Curiosities.

Feast your eyes, people. For you are about to embark upon a tour of the Museum of Worthless Curiosities. Housed in untitledmother-in-law’s guest bedroom, the MWC is a one-of-a-kind collection that has been years, if not decades, in the making. A result of crafty 4-H leaders and well-meaning relatives that just had to bring back something from their trip to the World Pork Expo, the MWC features unique artifacts that you’d be hard-pressed to find anywhere else (unless you frequent the Goodwill store or church bazaars, of course).

Our first stop is Sleepy Eye, the droop-eyed owl. He is being punished, you see, for cutting macramé class and smoking too much weed. Now he spends his days hanging from a wall with a nail up his ass. From his perch, he will forever pine for his beloved bong, which he thinks may be stowed under the driver’s seat of his Camaro, right next to his Guns N Roses CD and the remnants of a petrified bean burrito. If he only knew that untitledmother-in-law mistook it for an antique hurricane lamp and placed it on the living room mantle.

Sleepy Eye the Owl - Wanna get hiiiigh???

Next up is Cat Mandu. This is one pussy that will never go to tuna town, for he has been hermetically preserved through the lost art of decoupage on what appears to be the knotty stump of a young tree. Now don’t get all misty-eyed on me. You and I both know that eventually, he would’ve ended up hacking up hairballs on the new sofa and pooping in the bedroom whenever his litter box was even the least bit soiled. Admit it. He had it coming.

Cat Mandu

Last on our tour is this calico sculpture-thingy, which we have lovingly dubbed “Cuntry Heart.” This piece was once a fashionable staple of home décor, back in the days when Juice Newton was on the radio and your favorite pair of jeans had a lace-up roller skate on the back pocket. When not on display as wall art, the heart also serves as a makeshift panty hose drying rack or even an auto-erotic asphyxiation device.

Cuntry Heart

That brings our tour of the MWC to an end. These are but a few of the artifacts that comprise the permanent collection. As your curator and docent, I will continue to post the occasional oddities for your review. And yes, in case you’re wondering, the MWC does take donations.