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(*Disclaimer* This article was a mild writing exercise, and is meant purely as entertainment. Events depicted may be entirely fiction, based upon a similar event three years ago in a Chevy S10.)

I'm a Porsche owner. Because of this, various individuals feel it is their sworn duty to deface my overly ostentatious motorcar. Driving something so ridiculous is after all, "just asking for it". In the latest debacle, someone managed to create a suitably long custom engraving upon my driver's door, easily transgressing beyond the deep black color coat. Did I mention my car is also black? I really should just paint a bulls-eye on the front of the windscreen, shouldn't I?. To fix this damage required the attention of a person beyond my admittedly limited auto-body repair capabilities, so I enlisted the help of my local dealership.
"I can bring out 80% of it." intoned the Paint Repair Guy solemnly from the back parking lot of the garage/detail shop of the dealership. As the realization that the entire door would have to be repainted dawned on me, and require a significant transfusion of hard cash money in the process, I decided to let Paint Repair Guy do his best. "Can I get these water spots buffed out too?" I inquired. "We have a full buffing and detail package." replied Lisa, my trustworthy Service Adviser, always ready to take my cash, and never ready to answer her phone. "But we'll probably need to keep the car overnight..."
Alright, I thought, no big deal, I'll get a loaner, mebbe they'll even let me behind the wheel of one of the new 911s. (An exercise in pure fantasy, giving me a loaner 911 is asking for it to return in pieces on the back of a flatbed) After much hemming and hawing, Lisa did I as expected all long, and gave me the keys to a Cayenne. For those who aren't aware, The Porsche Cayenne S was engineered to address the complaints of 911 owners who just couldn't get the damn thing up their favorite hiking trails. It's a massive SUV, equipped with a potent, fire breathing V8, sports car suspension, ludricous brakes, and sophisticated all-wheel drive technology beyond my mortal comprehension. Now, please keep in mind that last time I had a Cayenne S, I engaged in multiple felony offenses with it, all while transporting four other people. Aside from going nearly 3 times the legal speed limit on a divided highway, we also went off-roading through nearly every yard in Blacksburg, and somehow evaded arrest in the process. (These noteworthy adventures went down on record as the best part of the Spring of 2008.) As I walked around the service bay, already chuckling to myself at what I planned this time around in the V8 powered SUV abomination, I noticed something. The Cayenne was the wrong color. And furthermore, there was no "S" behind the word "Cayenne". The horror dawned on me that Lisa had cleverly given me a base model, assuming that a less powerful machine would curtail my appetite for vehicular destruction. She underestimated me gravely.
On the way home, aside from being sorely disappointed in the V6 Cayenne's lack of performance enthusiasm, I resolved to salvage some fun from this debacle. The question was how? This wasn't the S type, capable of ludicrous fits of speed able to peel a man's eyelids off. However, it did have a Sport button, rendered almost entirely useless by the inadequacies of the pitiful little 6 cylinder strapped between the fenders. After meeting up with my brother Jordan, the other part of The McNabb Brain Trust, we realized that in order to cut this Gordian Knot, we'd need alcohol. Piling into the Cayenne, with Jordan's girlfriend Amber joining us, we blazed off to Floyd, picking up Timmy Bowen along the way. Soon we meandered through the beer section of the local grocery store, wondering what to purchase. Yuengling? Sam Adams? Guiness surely, but from there things took a turn for the worse. "We need sterner stuff..." mused Jordan.
"Ah-hah! King Cobra!" he proudly announced. Not to be outdone, I grabbed a 40 oz bottle of Steel Reserve, hoisting it into the air, and we made our way to the check-out counter, cackling with glee. Moments later, back inside the Germanic Insult to Automotive Logic, fumes from badly distilled cheap malt liquor filled the interior. "Alright, Amber drives from here." I commanded.
Leaving the parking lot could not be done in the normal fashion while ensconced within such an outrageous machine. After discovering how to engage the locking differentials, we cajoled Jordan's innocent girlfriend into jumping the curb and climbing an embankment onto the side street behind the grocery store. At last, the puzzle had been solved. Without the benefit of the S type's prodigious horsepower, we'd instead take advantage of it's formidable off-roading capacity instead, all the while consuming copious amounts of the same alcohol enjoyed by homeless persons everywhere across the USA. First we determined that we'd pick up Matt Moses, who picked up our gas tab from the last insane SUV joyride. (A figure somewhat less than the national debt)
After switching passengers and installing Matt in the sober driver's seat, our molestation of some of South Western Virginia's most scenic vistas began in earnest. First we went to the Blue Ridge parkway and drove over, around, and on top of the picnicking areas. During this time cheap malt liquor was consumed, bottles were discarded, and the process of "catching a buzz" reached it's inevitable conclusion. Then in search of more serious challenges, we embarked down a gravel road seemingly transplanted out of southern Vietnam. "I think I've gone four-wheeling down here..." said Matt, as we bucked and bounced down a heavily wooded, overgrown pathway in the deep Virginia darkness. Jordan drunkenly began the process of engaging the differential lockers, and starting onwards again, we emerged into a clear meadow. Resisting our entreaties to go flying around said hayfield, Mat embarked further down the significantly more obstructed trail. Trees clawed at us from all sides, small boulders were haphazardly strewn in our path, and the thicket closed in ominously. "Uh, do you think we should keep going? asked Matt. "Dude, they race these things in Mongolia." replied my inebriated brother. Further downwards we ran into brush so thick that both Mat and Timmy left the car to clear a path. "You sure we should keep going? inquired Mat again. "MONGOLIA!" roared Jordan.
Fueled by cheap malt liquor and devoid of common sense, we pressed on, finally reaching a substantial creek that ran directly in our path. Mat's hesitations were lost in another drunken pronouncement of "MONGOLIA!" and we crashed through the creek, grinding rocks beneath our Teutonic Titan. Eventually we realized we were traversing an old logging trail, the type of place diesel timber skidders once roamed. Said trail was obviously not designed for luxury SUVs commanded by inebriated young men, but we drove on, heedless of the adverse conditions and fully confident in German engineering. Eventually we reached an intersection in the middle of nowhere, and turning left we plunged even further into the depths of the forest. By now our heads were drunkenly wobbling from side to as we ascended, our beer bottles smashing against our teeth as the Cayenne scrabbled its way uphill.
Our fevered voyage was suddenly cut short by the appearance of a green metal gate, padlocked and barring our passage. No one could figure out how to deploy the Cayenne's integral laser cutter, so Mat slipped the Steptronic into reverse, and we backed down the trail in defeat, cursing the base model's lack of an infrared back up camera the whole way. A few minutes later we plunged through the creeks again, smashing our way back to civilization. After much crashing and plowing through the forest, the headlamps finally alighted on good ol' asphalt again, and we roared off into the night, seeking fuel and a good first look at the result of our endeavors.
Upon reaching the Floyd Express station, the florescent lights revealed a radically revamped exterior. Mud, grass and dirt had been artfully strewn to the top of the fenders, reaching the very roof of the Cayenne in places. Underneath the rear bumper, the extractors so obviously imported from a 911 were "tweaked", requiring some good ol' "massaging" to return to an approximation of their original form. Resolving to thoroughly wash said SUV, we returned home, satisfied with our successful evaluation of the Cayenne's off-roading performance. (Note to Porsche engineers: Rear extractors, no matter how aesthetically pleasing, have no place adorning an off-road vehicle piloted through the wilds of Virginia by a redneck and his drunken hill billy friends) The final piece de resistance occurred on the way home, when a skunk defiantly sprayed the underside of the SUV as Amber drove directly over the top of it. Having thus disgraced the Cayenne utterly, we parked it for the night.
At 10:46 AM, I finished cleaning the Cayenne. My soap bucket appeared to have been dredged through the last California mudslide, and the plastic trim still had dirt stains. I carefully considered the consequences, looked at the darkening sky overhead, and decided to risk returning it. Sometime later that afternoon I sneak the Cayenne and its filthy tires back into the dealership, stare at the 911 turbos, then grab my Cayman and get the Hell out of there. A quick look reveals the scratch to be mostly invisible to casual observation, but close inspection reveals both the scratch and the aforementioned water spots. I immediately resolve to be rid of black cars, as they were clearly one of the punishments God set upon mankind. As for the Cayenne, you will never hear me denigrate its off-roading capability.
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