Wednesday update: I arrived home before anyone else yesterday, which is fairly unusual due to my hour-long commute from work. I'm alone, hanging out in the kitchen for about 30 minutes wondering where the food is. I'm a man. I need nourishment after a long day's work, and I like it within minutes of arriving home. Finally, after staring blankly at the stove for what seems like an eternity, I hear my wife and kid tumble in through the front door, blown open by the fierce wind of the passing storm.
My kid sees me and instantly declares, "I like the Green Machine way more than your piece of crap Jeep." I slowly turn my head away from the empty stove, and begin to ponder how he would know this, and where he picked up his bad habit of degrading his wonderful, giving father. I then remembered my wife's eye doc appointment and that he had to drive the Frog (my angelic 1999 Cherokee Classic with 5.5" of lift and 33" of meat, which by no accident, is taller and more capable than his newly acquired XJ) since my wife had her eyes dilated and could not drive.
While balling my hands into fists of fatherly fury, I uttered a "whuu??" before slamming them into his chest, making him retreat into a cowering mass of teenage jello. "There's no way your baby Jeep drives better than my Frog" I yelled, as I continued pounding him into submssion. Forgetting that I am 25 years his senior, he gets up from the unexpected carnage and commences to retaliate the only way he knows how.
In his newly appointed mission, he continued his flurry of insults, insisting that his 4.5" RE lift and 32" Goodyear tires ride and handle better than my inspired combination of raw power and trail-beating goodness. "No, no..." I scream, as I attempted to plug my ears as if warding off evil. "My brakes are better..." he yelled, "...and my steering is way more responsive than yours" as if broadcasting news of the end of the world.
At this time, I have no way of comparing the performance of the Frog to the Green Machine, other than what my teenage, cereal-eating son posited in his one-sided argument. You see, the punk won't let me drive his Jeep because he's afraid of me burning his gas. Forget, for the moment, that I spent many tens of dollars raising him from egg to hatchling over the past 18 years. I firmly believe he won't let me drive his baby Jeep because he is afaid of me finding out the truth.
This has been an unnecessary and unauthorized update to the Green Machine Blog.