You just don’t know how special you are ’til you own and operate a Tesla Model S.
Why, you’re so special that, in some states, you didn’t even have to pay sales tax to get your new ride. And here in California, your wundercar can go all of its 200-something mile range on the freeway in the carpool / HOV lane even though you’re sitting in your car all by your lonesome!
Now check out Dude here on Masonic. He’s got his official CA HOV stickers on all four corners. Plus, he’s also got a license to jibber jabber on his handheld cell phone while driving. I mean, he must – just look at him:
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Oh but Dude, don’t speed too much else the maximum range on your $100,000 car will go down to 100-something miles and then you’ll have to get towed, like this:
(Funny story – in the mind of Tesla CEO Elon Musk, the driver of this car drove it in circles specifically to make it run so low on juice that it wouldn’t go no mo. That wasn’t true but oh well. And this Model S wouldn’t even allow its needlessly-complicated doors to open for the tow-truck monkey, that child of a Lesser God, so it could be, you know, put into neutral so, you know, it could get towed. Oh, and here’s another funny one. How many kids should you have with 30-something Elon Musk before he trades you in for a newer, sexier model-type model? Five[!] Five kids, srsly. And then the former Mrs. Elon Musk is like, “At least she’s not a blonde.”)
Anywho, the question of the day is why you’d even want such a long, low, and wide big-on-the-outside-yet-small-on-the-inside vehicle such as a Model S? It’s like an electrified Porsche Panamera four-door, right? And compared to my full-sized. eight-passenger motherfucking Land Cruiser, the Model S is longer[!] and wider[!] (How can that be?) And I’ll tell you, my ride, which isn’t exactly known for high MPG, no not at all, has a real-life range of 400-something miles on the freeway.
Oh, what’s that, your Model S is shiny and it has a lot of chrome and it makes you feel special? Well, then carry on with your super important phone call, by all means.
You have become a Supraman.
“As far back as Yossarian could recall, he explained to Clevinger with a patient smile, somebody was always hatching a plot to kill him. There were people who cared for him and people who didn’t, and those who hated him were out to get him. They hated him because he was Assyrian. But they couldn’t touch him, he told Clevinger, because he had a sound mind in a pure body and was as strong as an ox. They couldn’t touch him because he was Tarzan, Mandrake, Flash Gordon. He was Bill Shakespeare. He was Cain, Ulysses, the Flying Dutchman; he was Lot in Sodom, Deirdre of the Sorrows, Sweeney in the nightingales among trees. He was miracle ingredient Z-247. He was…
Crazy!” Clevinger interrupted, shrieking. “That’s what you are! Crazy!”
“…immense. I’m a real slam-bang, honest-to-goodness, three-fisted humdinger. I’m a bona fide Supraman.”
“Superman?” Clevinger cried. “Superman?”
Supraman,” Yossarian corrected.”
“Yossarian is transcendent man. He is rising above the living dead all around him to find a way to live. He is basically alone in his quest. A real hero.”
“I am, I am Supraman, and I can do anything.”