I don’t even know.
Also I would like to see some kind of ode to (insert something mundane here, like a turnip), but in one very long sentence. The whole thing, one sentence.
A C16 Fueled CF Turnip. GO.
You ravished bride of quiteness, my sweet turnip, you are powered by the highly explosive, 2,2,4-trimethylpentane fluid that pumps into your cylinders, detonated and compressed by the forged pistons I have expertly installed, driven by a block so solid that I’d trust it to bring me from Pike’s Peak to NJMP and back again, oh you delicious ivory vegetable, your fair, blushed skin covered by a thin layer of cross-thatched carbon, the fibers lighter than a feather and stronger than the hardest threads of titanium — oh, your prowess is unmatched on the salt-flats of my heart, how I can never forget your six minute and seven second lap around the Nurburgring, your two minute and seventeen second sprint around Sebring, oh how could I forget any of this, your gears slammed straight to the next, each producing a satisfying pop from your titanium exhaust, each rev accompanied by a symphony unmatched by any other car in or out of production, even topping the 8C, making the Alfa look like a mere trumpet to your sousaphone, what amazing curves you have, where other cars are simply melted plastic you are cellular and alive under that carbon fiber skin, you are a thing that has life, has natural energy, and yet you choose to reach beyond what exists inside you, deciding that the energy stored within your cell walls is just not enough, so you crank it up to 100 and hope that there is no danger to your manifold, such a bold vegetable — a fearless one, not a broccoli but not quite a carrot — something in between, something incredible and created by a higher power, you are no doriftu god, yet you are not afraid of letting your tires turn into smoke and ash as your engine is fired to max power, as fuel is injected at such an intense pace that your engine mounts tremble and threaten to crack, no, you are not afraid, you are fearless, you are the Stig, you are a creature with no feelings or any opinion whatsoever, you are a racing turnip, an exact metaphor for the spirit of hoonage that lives within all of us petrolheads, you are what we all must achieve to be, brave turnip and these words are my attempt to do justice to you so your greatness can be shared with the entire world — go like schnell into the history books, my clock-powering friend.