I Really Can't Talk My Way Out of Things...

Once upon a time, there were two little boys whose parents went out of town. These two little boys were not supposed to be driving their parents' cars. The older little boy put seven hundred miles on his dad's Benz. Valet key? What? The younger little boy wanted to take the other car for one last drive. This car was not to be driven either, as the parents of the two little boys were getting ready to sell her. But deep down, how could you part with a glorious, aggressive, original BMW M3? Stocky. Powerful. Grip for days. She all but begged to be driven. Oh, who am I kidding? In case you hadn't guessed, I'm the younger little boy. The older little boy is my brother, Gavin. This was not a fairy tale; this was idiocy. I was traveling west on Clayton Road, approaching Brentwood Boulevard. In St. Louis, it's an odd intersection. Right in the middle of where it shouldn't be, there is a cut-through to zoom into an IHOP. While I think it's goofy, I've been known to use it a time or two, because nothing (not even adulthood) gets between me and a smiley-face-double-chocolate pancake. On this particular day, the traffic was a bit trafficky in the center lane, but the right was smooth sailing. So I cruised into the right lane to continue making my way west. I had to get this candy-apple red blitzkrieg of a car back into the garage one last time after my one last drive of her. I was going to miss Helga. There is really nothing that quite captures the sound of metal hitting metal at t...
Source: Healthy Living - The Huffington Post - Category: Consumer Health News Source Type: news