Eat at Joe’s. I saw the sign as it blurred by the roadway, or thought I did, a neon mess with a lit up cup of coffee, hot steam swirling up and into the black desert sky.

I was going too fast to be sure.
But I knew I was hungry. Really hungry. Having pushed two hundred miles on a donut and a gallon of coffee, it was past time for some hash brown heaven. But the problem was the car: a 2005 Chrysler 300C SRT-8 that would not stop. Briefly, I thought of it – of stopping. But then I gently goosed the throttle and, well, the cold reality is that this car captured me, my heart, my hands, my feet and just about every single sense that thrills at driving. The SRT-8 captures its drivers and locks them into the cabin, taking prisoners, enslaving free people to a powertrain as sweet as there is without a second on the house. And those gosh-darn-it-stick-to-the-ground-tires seal the deal, forcing a real driver to speed by the best steak and egg deal in the universe with little more than a fleeting wish for nourishment.

Nah. I can eat later.
This car, the Chrysler 300C SRT-8, will make you love it. It’s easy enough to do, easy enough to climb in and never want to leave. This is a grown-up’s dream come true, the supermodel waiting by the window with the light on, the winning lotto ticket, the prettiest horse, a cane for the common man to use on the skinny wrists of tuners with flashy cars and busted pipes.

Whap. Get yourself a real car, son.