Here's my "kill of the week". Cruising along in the 442, pull up to a light (in front of the police station, no less) and theres a punk kid in a Neon. Blue, white racing stripes, wing, the whole 9 yards. Might have even been an SRT-4, who knows. Anyhow, the kid drops it into neutral and starts to rev. My dad doesn't acknowledge him. Light goes green, the ricey trounces it, and we let him go. After a nice leisurely drive to the next light, we catch him. He's sitting there, thinking he's got something, gesturing at us. My dad looks at him out of the corner of his eye and nods. The light opposite goes yellow, then red. As the light goes green, that sweet shreiking sound, accompanied by a cloud of white smoke emits from the wheelwells. It was over before it even began. We had him by at least the width of the intersection to begin with and by the time we let off, he was merely a speck in the rear view. Course once we slow to the speed limit he pulls the "rice flyby", but the point has already been made.
Friends don't let friends drive Neons.
