Brands ain’t like they were. Cars ain’t like they were. When you was a kid, ain’t no one gonna buy an Oldsmobile. That’s your parent’s car. That ain’t no humbucker! That ain’t no burner!
Now it’s different now. Hydraulics is what’s in. Beefy is what’s in. You need you power to get off the ground in the modern speeder, kid. You ain’t gonna stick to the ground in you tired old cars. You gonna get some air under you, so they take the old cars and they gut ‘em and they fit ‘em with hydraulics and they fit ‘em with subpolar reverse thrusters, they get you hovering and you fly off and you friends think you cool, you fly, you drive a cloudkicker bro. And them hydraulics ain’t no joke, you need five people in the backseat just to give that shit some weight so it down’t flip on you. There’s no concern about it dropping out of the sky; there’s just the very-real that it gets away from you, flies you halfway to Arkansas and burns off half your ass. (The other half is not burned off but it is what we like to call a “meatpie.”)
So all of a sudden it’s not cool to drive alone, it’s cool to drive in herds, so we got us all piled in just to go to the supermarket, we like yous great-greats who drove around America in effed-up vans, and we paint ‘em on the sides just like they did, we all driving the effing Mystery Machine, we all get designations and someone is always, always Scooby-Doo.
An’ you don’t wan’ be someone’s Scooby, when you Scooby everyone imitates the words you say in Scoobvoice and throws at you dogbiscuits, and you get so sad, so sad you think when you driving high enough you pitch yourself just out the backseat into airspace just so no one Scoob you no more, and then it’s an epidemic, all them Scoobs fallin’ from the sky and landing everywhere in puddles of dog soup, Scoob-soup so we start callin’ you a Scoop, so when a Scoob turns sad he goes from Scoob to Scoop, an’ you think it’s the future so we all got more sensitive to the cruel anthropological biorhythms of social hierarchy, but that ain’t what’s true, what’s true is a systematized way to drop the loser from your pack quite literally, you drive ‘em high and watch ‘em toss themselves, they’s falling stars and each time one drops we all stop and do our best Casey Kasems; as a culture we pulls a Shaggy and we says “Zoinks!” and we watch you go, we itemize you, we write you the most beautiful poems, we cast ‘em into the Scoop and we ain’t for sure we miss you, but damn it if we gotta find ourselves a next-gen Scoob afore the hydraulics pitch us for lack of good weight distro; good-bye good-bye Scoob, you ain’t no one else’s dog.