It was a pleasant spring day, and I was fourteen. Our resident self-destructive chick, Mary, had apathetically allowed me to drive the brand new Chevy Blazer her father had just bought her for her sixteenth birthday. Not only did I not have a license, I had proven destructive tendencies.

We stared over the edge of the gravel lot in our high school, into the grassy field in front of us. White puffy clouds lazily cavorted overhead in the golden sunlight. I started the engine, calmly shifted into drive, and for no other reason than it seemed the exact right thing to do at the time, slammed my foot down on the accellerator as hard as I could, and held it there.

Fortunately, it is exactly this kind of stupidity that American car makers must take into account in their designs. There was a roaring 3/4 second pause, almost as of disbelief, and then that bright blue, freshly waxed proto-SUV rocketed over the concrete stop and flew across the school's lawn, tearing a long deep gash in the freshly seeded grass as I frantically attempted to stop it again.

When we shuddered to a halt, I noticed Mary had bitten the filter of her cigarette in half.

"Nice pickup," I said.