(Don’t get the joke? Click here.)
So, uh… what the fucking fuckery fuck, over?
This is what happens when you let a DBR9 fuck a Smart fortwo. I just… I… that is wrong.
The ever-wise editariat at Jalopnik points out that “[i]f Aston sells a couple thousand Cygnets, each emitting under 120g/km of CO2, that’s a hell of a reduction in its fleet emissions”, and I suppose that’s a good enough reason. Hell, it’s better than the Detroit Three introducing sport-utility vehicles to the same purpose. But… but…
Great shivery balls, Aston Martin, what the fuck is wrong with you?!
Colin Chapman (pbuh) has shown us the Way: it’s light, light, light, rear-wheel-drive, light, low centre of gravity, light, light, stiff in chassis, light, and somewhat lacking in extraneous mass. (I’m just gonna ignore that whole de Dion axle thing. Hey, he was designing a kit car. I’ll also note that the Ford Fucking Mustang has yet to catch up in most every model.) Aston Martin, for the love of low polar moments of inertia and all else that is holy, please give us a slightly downsized Vertigo Streiff with a Vantage grin, dimensioned to whatever gets you the mileage you want out of the engines you have. You make sports cars, remember?
On the other hand, I now have a strangely compelling urge to take a Smart fortwo apart, weld in a rollcage, a proper fuel cell, and a Hayabusa motor, and somehow make it a track car. It helps that I don’t have (a) a garage, (b) a welder, (c) a budget, or (d) a Smart fortwo, so I’m unlikely to actually embark upon this idiotic quest… but the seed has been planted. And I only want to do it to embarrass the fuck out of this travesty of an automobile.