"And how much smaller or thinner do any of these devices need to be?"

Wow. A little jealous. My car was a Schwinn Highplains.

All those nice people on the big boat in "Titanic". Did not see that coming.

All of whom came back (from a certain point of view...).

I guess if you have to kill someone as great as Chewie, it'd better be by some awesome means like dropping a moon on him. Anything less would completely suck.

Just one? I'd bet they'd get two or three votes, easy.

Anyone not voting for Fark is probably sober...

Does it have to be an IRL car? Looks like them Duke boys done got themselves in a heap of trouble again.

See, I'd travel back to 1994 when the Chili Cheese Burrito was still available at Taco Bell, order 10 of them with sour cream, gorge myself and die of a massive heart attack and with a big smile. Then I'd kill Hitler.

Exactly. You're unfit to drive once your blood is flammable.

At one point, I thought he was going to do that. I'd go easy on the cop... I can see someone in a semi-panicked state thinking, "Oh, crap, I'm going to hit a cop!" and steering around the officer's car at the last moment. An effort by the cop to resume his place in front of the truck would just result in losing a…

I ask out of genuine ignorance, and not in an effort to propose a solution. How much braking force does the act of throwing a moving vehicle into reverse or park have? Assuming that transmissions will even allow such a thing, it seems like one could expect a massive CRACK as the transmission destroys itself, but…

Them's the breaks. Don't sweat it.

Phwew... dang, that was close. It was like the walls were closing in, suffocating me...

Dude needs to buy a 1981 Cadillac Eldorado.

It's a joke, right? No one *actually* watches Mike and Molly, do they? Please tell me it's a joke.

[instantrimshot.com]

This was my thought, too. Fast, versatile, and arguably capable of transporting more kegs than a GT-R. This truck can embarrass some very competent cars, then maintain that same speed straight off the road.

Crying. Actually beads of water, dripping from my eyes and on to my shirt. They taste of salt and hate and despair. My fist, it trembles with desire to accomplish its life's purpose, and yet finding no guilty nose at hand, its fiercesome energy must dissipate, unused, unfulfilled.

Came here to praise Tucker, but I see this has already been taken care of.