Cool Nice Cars And Girls images today

A few nice nice cars and girls images I found:

lamborghini diablo rear LDR


Image by LHG Creative Photography
The last of the gandini lambo’s, end of an age.

C’mon audi, get that weight off, that 4wd off, and get the lamborghini back to being the fastest meanest SOB supercar around. We know you’d love to overshadow lambos with that new supercar of yours roughly based on the gallardo, but the germanic thing….you’ll fail. It comes over as another exec car, thats all, just a sportier one. It will be driven by execs, and that makes it a dicks car. Its hard to love a car, no matter how good, when its associated with total spiritual vacuousness and evil, nobody likes their corporate exec boss- nobody, they arent even human, and the car is eventually seen as a tool of evil dicks.

The small proportion of lambo owners who werent grandads, (because lets face it, most supercars are driven by surly racist right-wing grandads with massively extreme and pointless work ethics and dour dispositions who preach morals to anyone even an hour younger and only have the car to pull sub legal teenage girls) were insane speedfreaks living the fantasy that liked to die at 190 in flames, and thats what made them cool. None of these people own audis bmw’s, very few own ferraris, and the japanese chav equivalent doesnt count, thats not passion, thats stupidity or retarded development. See Westwood for the example. Tuning and bodywork are one thing. Making a crap car better is a noble sport – up until the point you spend supercar money on it. Supercars, no matter what the expenditure, they are not..

Yes we love the way the new gallardo looks, marcello gandini design probably is outdated, you could tell he was tossing in the towel when this diablo and the cizeta arrived, and the reventon and murcielago are lookers too, but we didn’t want safe cars in the midrange of supercars, we wanted veyron beaters! We want it beat because its a pig toy, I want a real supercar.

That bugatti is damned ugly , its a pregnant pig with a doghouse door for a grille, it doesnt matter how fast it is, or how complete it is because its heavy, fat and too serious. Its not a posterchild for a generation, its hideous excess and thats all. Its the car the girl you know who pretends to know cars mentions as her dream car. This is because its the fastest production car. Theres no real love there, its like saying your favourite whale is the blue whale because its the biggest while knowing nothing about marine biology. A 250mph supercountach with updated looks, a personality that would suit a vigilante, and a nice touch of lethality- thats what we want!

People only like the new generation of supercars, all with silly names, the pagani’s (pannini sarnie), gumperts (handicapped guy who who works at mill) and konigseggs (is that a kind of personal stimulator you can buy at anne summers?) – because there no countach anymore! If there was a new countach that outperformed the pagani- would you want a pagani ? – of course not, its a mongrel next to a purebred lamborghini. It might be curvy and I love the back end but carbon fibre finishes and a nose that looks like a snooty posh bitch hybridised with a vulture- hell no! Looks like it sits there picking its nose! If ferrari oiwners can cock a snoot at lambo owners, lambo owners can definitely do the same to pannini owners.lol Its not a good sign though, its the start of the rot, it means that your favourite brand is no longer the fastest. Lambos built their rep on being the fastest, as ferrari did before them. When that primary goal goes, half the aspirational dream is gone. Nearly all the awe is gone. Lambos always held the fastest title though ferrari always took the handling title.When the lambo isnt the fastest thing out there, something is wrong with the world.

Ferrari have gone to the styling dogs and have got all nerdy with the computer stuff. The enzo is hideous, and looks stupid in traffic, it looks like it should be on the track, and that sort of styling should stay there, the bugatti (though granted looking like an audi TT crashed into a fat sow) proved GT1 design is not only pretentious but completely unecessary. Its not got any fantasy about it. There are plenty of classic le mans gt1 cars, but driving one on the road is pointless. A supercar was meant to bridge the gap with looks a GT1 car cant have, its a seperate genera of cars, going more to the track on looks isnt the point. It isnt the point because something far more beautiful can be created, thats part of what your paying for. The last good looker was the modena and even that looked plasticky. Perhaps ferrari should give someone other than pininfarina a go as the coachwork for a change. Since the 288 gto things have not improved on the beauty front.

Alfa romeos are shit front wheel drive, low end company cars (one of the automotive tradgedies of all time that is! Going from race stars and sports coupes of the past to the modern model range is shaming, nobody wants a front wheeel drive italian car, might as well toss in the towel and go buy a focus for all the kudos they have) and as for allowing mazda to create the spiritual successor to the duetto spider, well…just….FFS! Is it honestly beyond your brains to make another sports spyder for the modern age thats pretty and handles well?

Fiats are boring and trying too hard to win car of the year,every year, so what you get is small blobs for your kid sister that fall apart, and the new little abarth might be fine, but you used to do much more interesting things. A supermini seems a bit low aspirant to me. Maserati has its head up its backside since they began the rot with the biturbo’s ( and havent made a good car since the bora) and lancia is deceased. TVR died a death just as they were getting interesting, they did get points for being barking mad and immense fun even if they were built with the quality control of wooden fencing. Their looks were also pure fantasy and you get big points for that.

What we want is black, or red, looks like an organic spaceship that eats people, and is made from blood flame and thunder, a heartstopper. I wouldnt care if it had a hydrogen engine (lets face it hydrogen rocks next to petrol, it could be a new age of shattering performance at no eco cost) – as long as it roared and went like shit off a stick, y’know, you can do that, you really can!

The stuff of dreams. Not computer design – design from the heart! I want to love supercars again!

Stop with the executive toys and make it killer looks and a performance that maims people again! The automotive equivalent of a fire breathing without the cliche of a hot rod! In short, let lamborghini be lamborghini, not just a sporty division of audi.

We want our chariot of the gods with a raging bull on the front – back! We want that v12 scream cutting through the night, not some merc unit thats all low end torque, and cars because of that engine are all bastardisations and hybrids of mercs. If the heart is a merc, its a merc, I want a lambo!!

Oh and sort out the crap windscreen proportions and make that muira concept…and stop putting big stickers on your cars , take the SV’s for example …. it’ll just attract chavs.

My life is missing a love, and thats a love for an italian supercar! I’m actually quite depressed about it. If I won a 100 million quid, i’d have to go to a second hand dealers and get a car someone elses mucky arse and sweaty paws have been all over, something half burnt out, dinked, scruffy, reconditioned, its spirit given to someone else, who ultimately fell out of love with it, and sold it. Because nothing new inspires me, nothing.

Beamers with 7 gears audis with 500 brake and the kudos of a stationwagon, lotus elises that are underpowered and no alternative because of the loss of the esprit, porsches in their millionth derivative of the 911, I might as well pull the tombstone over my head and wait a hundred years.Astons are nice but they only have kudos for as long as it takes jaguar.. (now indian ffs…sigh) to rip them off.

Japanese cars are great, reliable, fast , competant, some arent even bad lookin, but as anonymous as wearing a t-shirt these days, because of the inclusive nature of their fans, who with few exceptions are chavs. If you find a good one chavs will still leer at it, and ask you "is that your car mate". Thats not why you own a nice car. Chavs surround every remotely fast japanese model, half of them to tear them apart and try to impress you by giving them big exhaustpipes. Its blue peter washing up liquid bottle mechanics with cars, its embarrassing. . Owning one is to be accepted to chavsville or probably get it nicked. Who wants to include chavs in their social circle just so your car doesnt get joy ridden? Respec. (VOMIT). There was evn a 300zx at the bredon classic car show, TBH I’m surprised someone didn’t get the torches and pitchforks. Surprised, and immensely disappointed.

Just gaah. Everything that made me want to love cars is gone. Not because of speed cameras, stupid traffic and crazy prices, but because corporates buggered the brands, the design ethos, and the magic. All of them. Those left trying to keep going with fandom have the taste of chavs, so I am compelled to let the dreams go.

You know when the yanks are producing more fun cars than italy, and that your noticing the fact, well, ol’ italia is having a bad sodding decade. Its because the germans have invaded again probably. This time in the boardroom. What we now have is safety conscious, product mogul rappers buying lamborghinis, and that i’m afraid , should be illegal. Its not ok to own and SUV and a supercar . One or the other, not both, and they should never be parked within 50 miles of each other. There is no genuine taste palette inclusive of both. Oh no there isn’t.

There are cars you have to drive, because your broke, because you have 15 kids, because its a company car, because you have security guards, because you have to commute. Theres nothing wrong with that. But features from these cars, the choices made concerning these cars, and they way we use and like these cars DO NOT apply to supercars, because the moment they do, supercars become a bit less super.

Supercars are only super when they have at most an association to racing, maybe to a beautiful exotic lifestyle, and to the pursuit of speed, style, and fast living and absolutely nothing else. The corporate supercar is a self contained anathema.

Rant over.

Qtpfsgui 1.9.3 tonemapping….and photoshop compositing

An Ex-Mas Story – Part 1


Image by Jack’s_Smirking_Revenge
I present to you – Part one of my short story "An Ex-Mas Story":

Jim Whelan never felt so miserable as he did around Christmas time. His feeling of malaise started with the melancholy ache of having to bid farewell to summer's warmth for the gradual chill of autumn. He was given a small respite as he took comfort in the delightfully wicked celebration of Halloween. As the fake blood, cob webs and foam rubber body parts were packed away he soon felt the cold embrace of depression stealing in as silently and as ominously as a dense fog rolling over a harbor.

He could not quite pin-point exactly when the holidays put him in such a foul mood. He supposed it was a gradual transformation that took him from the young boy who genuinely looked forward to the 'season of giving' to the 29 year old who viewed the holiday season with a feeling of dread.

While growing up, Jim's family did not have a lot of money. His father lost his job when the steel mills closed their doors for good, and he took to commercial roofing to support his young family. It was a lousy job that paid less than the mill, but more than the other offers he could get in a job market saturated with hundreds of guys just like him. The job took him away from home for weeks or months at a time; sleeping in motel rooms while his son's childhood steadily slipped away. The only thing that was worse than being away from home was staying home. The start of winter meant the end of jobs for the roofing company. Eventually he would be laid off; having to survive on unemployment benefits and what little money Jim's mother made from cutting hair. It was at the time when the Whelan family was at its leanest that the Christmas season kicked off.

Jim's parents were barely making ends meet, trying desperately to scrounge up enough money to even have a Christmas. All the while, the popular holiday stories all told children that good behavior was magically rewarded by shiny new toys, while bad behavior resulted in being passed over or given lumps of coal in punishment. Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Clause, and he's a big fat red bastard who puts those parents doing the best they can do to keep food in the pantry and a roof over their heads, into an unenviable position.

How does one explain to a child why even though they have been very good, Santa was only able to bring them a few inexpensive toys and some chocolate that tasted like wax. Meanwhile, the mean little boy down the block from the rude family with the nice car, gets a brand new bike? How does one comfort a child who is teased at school because most of his classmates got more gifts or more expensive gifts?

To the best of his memory, Jim's parents never fought about money in front him. Nor did his brother have any recollection of seeing any bitterness. Looking back, he felt his parents did a wonderful job of juggling the expectations fueled by Christmas propaganda, and the reality of their check book. They did their best to make the time not about the presents, but about being with family and reflecting on the good things they did have in their lives.

As he grew older, he began to realize the struggles that his parents went through, and he was ashamed of his childhood greed. With this realization, Christmas became less of a holiday and into a disgusting "freak show" where the main attraction were poor souls forced to buy the love of their family through expensive trinkets.

Christmas tells these poor wretches that if they do not get their child the newest, best, and most expensive new distraction on the market, that they are horrible parents. It whispers in the ear of the husband that he will lose the admiration and respect of his spouse if he buys her anything less than the diamond from the exclusive jewelry galleria. The Spirit of Christmas is a grim specter, disguised in the robes of good cheer smiling in your face, telling you that you need to be jolly. All the while, smoothly cutting you to bleed you dry.

Jim was jostled from these grim thoughts, as a morbidly obese woman wearing sweatpants with the word "foxy" stretched across her immense bottom, pushed her way past him in the isle of the Dollar Mart. He had been standing in front of the bath soaps and lotions packaged as gift baskets for the holidays. Looking down into his hand basket, he considered the meager offerings it contained and sighed. A bad financial year had left him shopping for Christmas gifts at a 'everything is a dollar' store.

He was not quite sure what 'body butter' is, but he felt slightly dirty for considering it as a gift for his mother. He had the feeling that, at best, he could find a creative way to make some inexpensive, yet unique, gifts. At worst, everyone was going to get a holiday themed mug filled with a few assorted herbal tea bags and a handful of candy.

He knew his family did not expect anything from him for Christmas. In fact, they were hurting worse than he was. His grandparents were living off of their retirement funds, and the hit on Wall Street hurt them deeply. His mother could no longer work. His father quit his roofing job after his knees gave out, then took the necessary courses to get a job as a phlebotomist at the local hospital. Although not as strenuous as climbing ladders, he was only making a fraction of what the roofing job had paid.

Despite their repeated admonishments not to bother buying each other gifts, Jim still could not help but feel the need to get people something. As much as he hated Christmas and recognized the siren song of commercialism for what it was, a part of him was still captive to its call.

The only real dilemma he had faced this year was finding something for his girlfriend Stacey. While she demanded nothing of him, he still wanted to get her something nice. Stacey was a lovely girl, kind to a fault, and in Jim's estimation, only had one major flaw. A flaw named Stan.

Stan was Stacey's ex fiancé. The split had been amicable, both realizing that marriage was just not in the cards for them, and after the break up, had remained friends. Although Jim trusted Stacey, on some deep primal level, he hated their friendship. Instinctively Jim reacted to Stan the way a wolf will react to another male entering his territory: hackles up, ready to fight. For Stacey's sake, he kept civil when this idiot man child not only refused to catch fire and die, but would not take the hint to simply go away. Yes, he trusted Stacey. But he did not trust Stan.

He knew he wasn't going to find anything at the Dollar Mart for Stacey. He had saved up some money, and had bought two tickets to her favorite Broadway play that was coming to town soon. His was disappointed that the tickets in his price range were the second tier seats. He would have loved to get them closer, but it just was not in the budget.

After paying for his few presents, Jim headed out of the store and across the parking lot, dodging crazed drivers in their holiday shopping frenzy. Just as he was digging for his keys to unlock the door, his cell phone rang. He shifted his bags to his other arm and looked at the caller ID. Seeing Stacey's number, he flipped open his phone while he proceeded to load his bags into the back seat.

"Hey Hon!" he said warmly. "How are you?"

"I'm fine baby. What are you up to?"

"Just doing a little shopping… what did you need?"

She hesitated, then said "Well, I want to ask you something, but I don't want you to get upset…"

Jim could feel his blood pressure rising as an ice pick of fear stabbed his gut. He breathed deeply and tried to remain calm as he replied "Oh?"

She sighed and said "Yeah… Hon. I love you, I really do. So I don't want you thinking that this is more than it is. Well, you know how I've been wanting to see that new play about the evil witch? Well, Stan just called and told me that he was buying me orchestra seats for the show. Hon… I want to take the tickets, but I don't want you to be mad."

"MAD?!" Jim said with disbelief. "My girlfriend just told me that her ex-fiancé wants to take her to a show where he spent per ticket, and I'm not supposed to get mad?! Come on, Stacey. You can't expect me to believe that you are naive enough not to realize that this guy has ulterior motives."

"But, Jim… I.."

He briskly cut her off "Look. You can accept the tickets if you want. Go ahead and accept a date with your ex. But don't expect me to be around when you get home."

He clicked off his cell phone and threw it down on the passenger street, seething with anger.

The bastard. The sneaky son of a bitch BASTARD. Here he was again, playing the nice guy, trying to slime his way back into her life, and no doubt back into her pretty little panties. Shaking with rage, he tried the mental exercises he had learned to use to manage his anger. When that did not work, he punched the headliner with his right hand with five quick powerful jabs, that he would later find left a dent in the thin roof of his car. Had he hit a support beam, he probably would have broken his hand. His knuckles burned, but he did not care. In some perverse way, he relished the pain. It did not dissipate his anger like he had hoped, but it did clear his head and channel his anger like the laser pinpoint of a rifle scope.

Turning his car around, he headed toward town, with the intent to hunt down Stan.

—- END OF PART 1 —-

SydneyPortrait-01


Image by LightningSymphony
Oct 29, 1997 – Jun 11, 2008
Sydney was an extraordinary puppy dog. She lived with Addison’s disease for the past few years, had injection therapy on her knees, and probably cost us a nice car in vet bills for all kinds of dumb reasons. But we never blinked, because she was our little girl.

She loved to play and talk, roll in the grass and crawl on her belly. When I laid down on the floor, she would come and curl up against me, nudging me with her muzzle if I failed to keep petting her. Kisses could be had if asked for.

And she smiled. For eleven years, every time I would come in the door, she would smile and snap and snort, wiggle that little bottom of hers and run in circles, making little chattering sounds. It didn’t matter if I was gone a week or an hour. Today is the first time I’ll come home and not get my greeting.

We miss you, baby.

Tags:Cars, Cool, girls, images, Nice, today